Hounds & Wolves
by girloficeandfire
Summary: AU in which Sansa goes with Sandor during the Battle of the Blackwater; he is still caught by the Brotherhood without Banners and yes, Arya is still there as well...
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

_**This was written for another sansaxsandor community commentfic prompt, as follows:**_

_AU where Sansa has gone with Sandor during the Blackwater, so the events in ASoS play out differently but kinda close to canon since he has her with him now. They are taken by the Bro-hood w/o Banners still (I guess Arya and Gendry are there too if it's semi-canon) and Sandor has to duel Lord Beric, and wins just the same. How does Sansa react to the trial? To him getting burnt? Does he still cry "like a baby?"_

_*Just a quick note: I felt the need to kind of build up the SanSan relationship before throwing them in with Arya and the BwB…hence the fact that this is not a short fic, even though it started out as a commentfic. That said, timeline-wise there is approximately a month and a half between the Battle of the Blackwater and Sandor's capture by the BwB so I also had to gloss over some time in order for this to not become a novel in and of itself ;) Please remember that this *is* an AU and that I will do my best to make as much of it canon as possible, but there will be obvious and not-so-obvious differences :)_

**SANSA**

They had been riding for three days straight.

At times she was delirious with pain and lack of sleep. The Hound had looped her horse's rains to a ring on his own saddle and now she was often sleeping as she rode, hunched over in her scratchy uncomfortable clothes, draped in an too-large cloak with the hood pulled up to cover her hair. Or rather, what was left of her hair.

_My beautiful hair_, she could not help but think more often than not. A silly thing to be sad about in times like these, especially as she realized the necessity of Sandor's lopping it off with his dagger as they had readied themselves to flee the Red Keep and King's Landing. She had shocked herself by being less unhappy about the loss of her auburn locks than about the fact that she was forced to dress in awful roughspuns that the Hound had procured for her.

She refused to think about where he had gotten them. They smelled of stables and the musky odor of a man, were far too big on her slim form and when she had finally seen them in daylight, some hours after they fled King's Landing, she had decided that the many stains should remain a mystery as well.

As they traveled they avoided the kingsroad, but they were moving steadily north. Slightly west, as well, but when she had pointed this out to Sandor at sunset on their first day of riding he merely growled, "I'm no fool, little bird. We're not going to the Westerlands." He had not spoken to her since.

Sansa's hands were blistered and bleeding, her bum was sore, her thighs tender, and there was not a doubt in her mind that she smelled horrific. Funnily enough, when they finally stopped at dawn on their fourth morning and the Hound lifted her from the saddle, she found herself wondering if he cared that she was dirty and smelly and..._ugly_. But if he did notice, he neither did nor said anything - no raised eyebrow, no wrinkled nose, no curl of a lip. Instead, he barely looked at her at all as he said, "We'll rest for a bit in this grove. Can't have a fire; don't want to draw attention to ourselves. And no chirping from you, little bird," he snarled when she opened her mouth to speak. "You chirp, and they'll know you aren't who you say you are. You're to be a mute from hereon in. My squire, the mute. Understand?"

She could not help herself. "But if I'm you're squire, then you're a knight," she reminded him. At this his lip _did_curl, and he wrapped one of his large, strong hands around her arm, pulling her close, causing her to let out an involuntary squeak - partly in pain, partly in fright.

"Mutes don't _speak_, little bird. You'd best remember that."

As the Hound pulled some bedrolls from his horse's back, Sansa snuck off into the trees to make water. As soon as she was out of his sight she let the tears fall. She had promised herself that just moments after agreeing to come with him - no matter what he said to her, no matter what he _did_ to her, the Hound would not see her cry. She would be a lady, a Northerner, a Stark, a _wolf_. _You are Lady Wolf_, she told herself. _And wolves do not cry_.

But Hounds did. She knew that now, at least.

**SANDOR**

The more he thought about it, the less he understood why he had even _offered_ to take Sansa Stark from King's Landing. Leaving the way he'd done was treason of its own accord, but stealing the little bird away from Joffrey...there was no turning back from this. And now that he _had_ her, what in Westeros was he to _do_ with her? He knew what he _wanted_ to do, of course, and though he told himself that he pushed them for three days and three nights because they needed to get as far from King's Landing as possible, Sandor knew - deep down - that it was also because once they stopped he would have to face the fact that he had gone to her room and thought about raping her bloody.

Only he hadn't, instead he had asked her to flee with him, and she'd done so. Gods only knew why, but there it was and they were alone together. In the middle of nowhere. He could do anything he wanted to her, _anything_, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Finally he had no choice but to stop. The horses were nearly as exhausted as he and the little bird were, and he had caught himself drowsing in the saddle more often than he'd like. Really they needed an inn, but more than that they needed as many leagues as possible between themselves and the Lannisters before stopping and encountering more people. The battle-weary men and frightened women they had seen the first day or two had been bad enough, but thankfully as they traveled further and kept away from the kingsroad these meetings had become more and more rare.

Sandor lifted the little bird from her saddle, trying not to think about the way his hands nearly completely encircled her perfect, tiny little waist. Even with her hair raggedly chopped off, covered in dirt from their travels and dressed in the clothes he had stolen from a dead stable worker - _at least I didn't have to kill that one_, he thought - Sansa Stark was beautiful enough to make it difficult to restrain himself. So he avoided her eyes - her piercing, Tully blue eyes - and told her to keep quiet. When she wandered off to piss he unrolled their bedding - first placing the rolls right next to each other, just so, then thinking better of it and pulling them a bit more than an arm's length apart.

Close enough to be close to the little bird; but not close enough for him to touch her.

When Sansa returned some minutes later he saw her bite her lip at the sight of the bedrolls, but he had ordered her not to speak and like a courteous little law-abiding bird she kept her mouth shut and lay down on one of them, curling up under her cloak, the hood still covering the shock of red hair that was left on her head. Sandor felt himself make a noise that was something between a snort and a sigh. He pulled a wineskin from his pack and sat down on his own bedroll, taking a long pull of the sour red and trying to decide where exactly he would take this girl. A ship was the best bet, a ship to Braavos perhaps. Years ago he had met a Braavosi who talked of a house where a man could learn to change his face. The little bird would grow up - she would be taller, perhaps slimmer or perhaps heavier. Her face would change some, and they could color her hair, though he would hate doing that as much as he had hated cutting it off. But he was recognizable, _too_ recognizable, and scars did not just go away with age. Especially not ones like his.

But if he could change his face...if he could learn to do that, they could go anywhere. Maybe even come back to Westeros, eventually.

He tried to tell himself that he wasn't really thinking about changing his face in hopes that Sansa Stark would finally look directly at him without flinching.


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

She was not sure which frightened her more - the close proximity of the bedrolls that the Hound had lain out, or the wineskin she saw in his hands when she peeked out from under her cloak a few moments after lying down. _I will not fall asleep_, she promised herself - but sleep she did, and when she awoke the Hound was snoring away with his back to her. Sansa felt oddly disappointed and told herself that she should be happy that he had not already...

_No._She would not think of it. Perhaps if she did as he asked, remained silent and...and...performed a squire's duties...perhaps then he would be good to her.

Sansa ignored the little voice in her head that reminded her, _he has never been truly_ bad _to you_.

What did a squire do, exactly? She blushed at the idea of dressing the Hound; surely as she was a girl he would not ask her to do _that_. So...the horses, then? She eyed them warily. Horses had never been a favorite of hers, and though the palfrey the Hound had stolen for her seemed nice enough his own horse was a black beast of a thing. She moved to the packs that were lying on the ground under the tree and found a stiff brush and a soft cloth. She tackled the saddles first, wiping them with the cloth until the worst of the dirt was removed. Next she braved her own horse, and it was nice enough, even leaning into the brush at times. Finally she steeled herself and moved toward the Hound's destrier, making sure the animal could always see her as she approached cautiously, the brush held out in front of her.

She was within just two feet of him when he let out a loud snort, whinnied and seemed to simultaneously strike at her with his teeth and hooves. Sansa stumbled backwards, letting out a shrill scream as she fell on her already sore bottom. The Hound sprang to his feet so quickly that she wondered whether he'd been asleep at all.

"_What_ are you doing?" he shouted. "Did I not tell you to be _quiet_?"

Sansa opened her mouth to speak, remembered again that she was supposed to be mute, and instead used the brush to point at the Hound's horse. The man himself looked from her, to the destrier, and back in disbelief.

"You tried to brush my horse," he rasped, and it was more a statement than a question. She nodded again, and he let out a bark of a laugh that made her cheeks blush scarlet. "Foolish little bird," he said, shaking his head. "Stranger there would have bitten your hand off. You're lucky he gave you any warning at all...he must like you." She must have looked as confused, frightened, and annoyed as she felt, because for a moment the Hound's angry gray eyes softened and he said, "My destrier is much like me in that respect - if he likes you, he will always bark before he bites."

She thought about this for a moment and decided that he was being sincere. But what could he mean, exactly? _He promised to keep you safe..._

But would he keep her safe from himself as well as from others?

The Hound was still watching her, but as she wasn't allowed to speak she could not be sure of her response. Sansa finally forced herself to look up at him, tried to ignore the way the burnt corner of his mouth twitched as her eyes darted to his in an attempt to avoid focusing on the hideous scarring that covered the left side of his face. She refused to look away, waiting for him to say something else, to acknowledge her somehow, but for once he broke the contact first, broke it with a snarl that sent a shiver down her back. "I'll finish with the horses. Make sure you're ready to ride. Soon."

**SANDOR**

All those times he had ordered the little bird to look at him...all those times...and just when he needed her to do the exact opposite, she became suddenly brave.

When Sansa Stark was afraid of him it made Sandor angry, but it also caused him to hold back. It was why he hadn't done what he'd intended to do the night he waited for her in her room. But when her courtesy paired with her strength...that was something else entirely. When he helped her into her saddle, his hands once again wrapped around her waist, he gripped her a bit too roughly and she squeaked in pain. He mumbled something of an apology and mounted Stranger, eying the sun for a long moment before starting off with the little bird and her palfrey in his wake. It was mid-afternoon, best he could tell, and he thought that if they could ride all through the night and the following day, maybe they would then reach an inn and be able to stop. He had plenty of gold, his winnings from the Hand's tournament - or most of them at least. It was surprising how little one could spend in a year when room and board were free.

He could afford two rooms, he knew, but one would suffice. Sandor told himself he was making the intelligent decision - what knight in his right mind would pay for a second room for his squire? - but in reality if there was one room there would be but one bed and _gods_...the way her scent had wafted from the pillows and coverlets and enveloped him the night of the battle...

Sandor had never had such a peaceful sleep.

Well, until the little bird had arrived and nearly sat on him.

He did not allow himself to dwell on what had happened next. She was here, wasn't she? With him? She was even obeying him, remaining silent, which meant that she could not ask where they were going.

Sometime during the night Sandor stopped to loop the palfrey's reins to his saddle again. The little bird was fighting to stay awake but failing miserably. He almost hated to admit that he could use a bed as well, and thankfully around sunset the next day they came upon a smattering of buildings - including an inn. Sansa looked ready to faint from excitement, but he insisted that they hide in another grove of trees and wait for nightfall. He did not want anyone to see them approaching the sad excuse for a village. "Keep your hood up," he warned her. "And don't-"

"Talk. I know," she whispered, and she sounded so miserable that he could only grunt in response.

The common room in the inn was practically deserted - a scrawny peasant woman of middle age was stoking a fire and there was a group of desperate-looking men huddled around a corner table. When Sandor entered, the little bird close on his heels, the men barely glanced at them before turning their backs and huddling close. _They don't want to be seen any more than we do,_ Sandor realized. _Good._

"We need to stable two horses and my squire and I require a hot meal and a room. And plenty of wine."

"You can pay?" the woman asked, narrowing her eyes at him as if trying to see into the shadows of the hood that hid his face.

"Aye. Up front, if you require."

The woman nodded stiffly and after a bit of haggling Sandor paid her. "And a bath," he insisted. "No, two baths." It might look strange if his squire was freshly scrubbed and he was still filthy. He turned and poked the little bird's tiny shoulder, tensing with frustration when she let out a surprised gasp. "You first - I'll take care of the horses," he offered, and then added for good measure, "I'll want my bath after the wine, anyway." He followed the innkeep upstairs and waited while she brought up and filled a tub, taking her sweet slow time and making him more impatient with every minute that passed. Finally she went back to the common room to ready their food. Sandor nodded stiffly at Sansa. "Lock the door and meet me downstairs. No dawdling, no sidetracking. Understood?" She nodded.

When he turned to leave he heard her murmur, "Thank you," and he stopped abruptly, his shoulders stiff, wanting to chastise her for speaking but also somehow feeling the need to return the courtesy. Instead he did nothing, and went to tend the horses.


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

She waited several long moments after the Hound left, worried that he would return abruptly as she was disrobing. Finally she fairly tore off her disgusting clothes and quickly slid into the tub. The warm water enveloped her and though she'd had many baths like it in King's Landing, more than anything it felt like _home_. And she would have _real_food tonight, and a bed! Though where the Hound would sleep...

Some time must have passed, and she must have fallen asleep herself, because the next thing she knew the door to the room had slammed open, startling Sansa from her drowsing - and there was the Hound. At first his face was contorted in an expression that showed both concern and anger; when she leapt up and struggled not to slip in the tub while also attempting to cover her breasts, his demeanor seemed to battle between frustration, amusement and appraisal.

He stared at her for far too long before finally looking away.

"Your dinner," he finally rasped, holding out a large stone bowl filled with stew and topped with a chunk of hard bread.

Should she speak or not? She remained silent for some time, and when he did not move or talk again, she finally felt brave enough to whisper - albeit shakily - "Please put it on the table. I...I apologize...I fell asleep..."

"Obviously," the Hound said. He was exasperated, almost fuming, and she stood there shivering and doing her best to hide her nakedness from him. As he moved to place the bowl of stew down his eyes darted to her several times - but he kept his distance. "Go to bed when you're done with that," he finally growled, and then he was gone.

Sansa was ravenous but she _needed_ to dry off and dress before he came back. _What did he see?_ she wondered. Her whole body felt hot, so different from any way she had ever felt before. _It's just the bath_, she told herself as she used a blanket to blot the water away and pulled a shift - the only one she had managed to shove in her pack - over her head. She devoured the stew quickly and practically dove beneath the coverlets on the bed, hoping beyond hope that she would fall asleep before the Hound returned to their room. As she drifted she heard the innkeep return to empty and refill the tub - it took nearly a dozen buckets and by the time the woman was finally done Sansa's nerves were on edge. She had forgotten about _his_ bath! Did he really mean to take it while she was in the room? Perhaps he would not mind letting the water cool and bathing in the morning while she, his squire, tended the horses...

She tried to fall asleep, really she did, but soon enough the Hound returned. He was drunk; she could tell by the way he reeled as she shut the door behind himself. She peeked at him from under her eyelids and saw that he had a jug of wine in his hand. He stumbled toward the table and set the jug down - and began to remove his clothing. Sansa tried to not watch him, really she did, but when he let out a grunt of relief she glanced at him again and he was naked as his name day. He had the wine jug in hand again and the flickering flames of the fire in the hearth cast a glow around his form. He had strong, broad shoulders and a muscled chest; his arms were thick, the tendons prominent as he raised the wine jug to his mouth. His legs were like tree trunks, and Sansa found herself thinking of the young weirwoods at Winterfell - how beautiful and pale and _lasting _they were. She felt her eyes drawn to his most private area and squeezed them shut in protest. Sansa heard the Hound lower himself into the tub, heard the water slop over the edges and splash on the floor. He grunted again and she opened her eyelids by a fraction, just enough to see him take another long pull of wine.

_He will fall asleep in there as I did, _she thought, but it was more of a hope than a certainty.

**SANDOR**

He hadn't been truly drunk since the night of the battle, but now...

The little bird had never descended to the inn's common room for dinner, and after some time he had grown paranoid, grabbing up her food and stomping to the room, the clenching in his chest telling him that he was something like _frightened_, frightened that she had run off, even more frightened that someone had taken her.

But when Sandor opened the door she was there, for a split second asleep in the tub, her head tilted back to expose her long, smooth, pale throat, which led down to her...

And then Sansa was up, her tiny hands automatically covering her breasts while the pretty little auburn-haired mound between her legs remained exposed. _Fuck me_, he thought, but somehow, _somehow_, he forced himself to look away. He shoved the bowl of stew onto the table and ordered her to eat before rushing back down the stairwell, intent on more wine, wanting more than anything to forget what he had seen while knowing at the same time that he couldn't, he wouldn't, and how in the names of the seven gods would he keep away from her tonight?

Sandor nearly sucked down an entire jug of wine and ordered a second before practically dragging himself back up to the room. The innkeep had informed him that she had changed the water for his bath and though he briefly considered the propriety of stripping naked in front of Sansa Stark, in the end the wine won out and he simply did not care. When he dipped into the warm water he imagined that it was rather her soft warm skin pressing against his and he immediately felt himself go hard. _She must be sleeping,_he assured himself as he gripped his erection in his hand and began stroking slowly, rhythmically, imagining the little bird's hand on his face, him gripping her shoulder, her eyes meeting his with that sad, icy look of defiance...

He gasped then, though in the past he had always kept silent when dispelling his own seed. Sandor forced himself to recover quickly, cutting his eyes at the little bird - but she seemed to have not moved. He breathed easily then as he stood and let the water slough off him, taking an extra coverlet to dry his body and then tying it around his waist. Though Sansa was sleeping on one edge of the pallet, he knew she must have assumed that he would lie somewhere else. On the floor, maybe. _Bugger that_, he thought as he stretched out next to her.

Sandor fell asleep with the distant warmth of his little bird's back radiating against his left arm.


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

It was not until the Hound's breathing slowed and deepened that the tension finally began to leave Sansa's body. She had kept her eyes screwed shut but of course could still hear him sloshing about in the water; when he let out a gasp it nearly shocked her into sitting up, into asking what was wrong, but then she remembered she was supposed to be asleep at the moment, and silent when she was awake anyway, so she merely held her breath until she heard him stand and step out of the tub.

The room had grown chilly and again Sansa wondered where the Hound would sleep, but before her mind could formulate any sort of answer he was there on the bed beside her. She waited, frightened, expecting that he would reach for her, touch her, grasp her...but he did nothing of the sort and as he fell into a drunken sleep she lay there shivering and thinking of the cold nights at Winterfell when she and Arya would share a bed and try to shock each other with their cold hands and feet.

At some point Sansa's exhaustion took over and she fell into a fitful sleep punctuated with nightmares that she was back in King's Landing. Joffrey brought her the head of a wolf and laughed maniacally as he told her he'd killed her brother Robb himself; he then ordered Ser Boros to beat her and Sansa heard herself saying, "No, please no, the Hound, where is the _Hound_...?"

"Seven hells girl, shut _up_," she heard him rasp. He was hovering over her, pinning her to the pallet with his hands, and Sansa realized suddenly that she was no longer dreaming. She froze, her eyes wide. The Hound was staring down at her, his eyes gleaming in the darkness, and the silence stretched between them until she felt she needed to explain.

"I...I had a bad dream," she whispered. "I'm sorry." Sansa felt ashamed and childish, to be writhing and shouting in her sleep, making enough noise to wake him and possibly every other person in the little inn up - all because of a little nightmare.

The Hound's features contorted and the burnt corner of his lip twitched madly; she felt his hands tighten on her shoulders for a brief moment before he abruptly let go and backed away from her as if she was diseased. He seemed to hesitate, his hands clenching and unclenching, and finally he moved to the tiny opening in the far wall and tore back the thick, moth-eaten cloth that served as drapery. "It's nearly morning anyway. Get up. I paid for our time here and it's best we get an early start."

Sansa nodded and slipped quickly from the bed, grabbing up her dirty clothes and pulling them on as quickly as possible, keeping her back to the Hound as she did so. She could practically feel the anger emanating from him. Had she really been _that_ loud? What had she _said_? She wanted to ask, but then again she didn't, and she wasn't supposed to speak, anyway...

They left the inn behind them and traveled away from the road again, her eyes itching and tired due to her lack of sleep. The sun rose and set and still they rode, the horses picking their way carefully in the dark. They stopped in the morning and slept amongst the trees again, a pattern that Sansa soon learned they would repeat quite a few times. They came upon more inns in their travels, but the Hound refused to stop at one again and she was too scared to ask if they could do so.

In this manner the days stretched into weeks, and though they cut back toward the east again they continued moving north as well - and that at least left Sansa feeling that at the very least he seemed to be taking her _home_.

**SANDOR**

When the little bird had first begun whimpering in her sleep, it woke him as quickly as if she had screamed. She was twitching and moaning and then suddenly she rolled over and reached in his direction, grasping at his arm, and he thought maybe, _maybe_...

Until she found her voice and called out, loudly this time, "No," then dropped back into mumbling so that the only words he understood after that were, "the Hound."

She was having nightmares, of that much he was certain, and it seemed that they in fact involved _him_. She was being too loud, on top of it all, and in his anger he found himself moving over her, pressing her shoulders into the pallet and cursing at her, forcing her to wake up. When she did she looked more frightened than ever and considering how many times he'd seen her scared, her reaction just then said more than he could have ever wanted it to say.

_Sansa Stark will never not be afraid of you. She will never look on you with anything but fear and pity and will never speak to you with anything but forced courtesy,_he told himself then. He had to practically leap off her, and when he told her they were leaving he stared out the open slat in the wall at the barely lightening sky rather than chance a look at her as she dressed.

Yet when they got back on the horses, he left the road and though he continued to bear north, he also cut east as well. They had gone too far west to bother with Maidenpool, he knew, but Saltpans...they could catch a ship there, and it was far enough west of Maidenpool that they wouldn't have to cut back too much.

He followed the original pattern of riding all day and night and sleeping the following day. Sometimes he allowed for a few hours' stop every morning, knowing that otherwise she would hate him even more than she already did, but inns were out of the question. He could not share a bed with her again - he wanted his reward far too much, yet also somehow did not want to give himself the temptation to take it.

The little bird remained silent as he'd ordered, yet her obedience angered him as much as it amused him, so that when she finally spoke – nearly a fortnight after they had left the inn where she'd had her nightmares of him - he felt a surge of relief that she was talking to him at all. They were about to get back on the horses for another night of riding when she touched him gently on the arm as he reached to help her up and said, her voice hoarse from disuse, "Please...may we find an inn? I feel...I need..."

Sandor could not help himself. He gently brushed a calloused hand across her forehead and realized that she was hot to the touch, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with fever. "Seven hells," he swore. "Why didn't you say something sooner, if you were sick?" She cut her eyes to the ground and he could feel her trembling beneath his hand, so he crooked a finger around her chin and raised her face to him again. There were tears in her eyes but she seemed intent on not allowing them to fall and he felt a surge of respect for her and a gut-wrenching twist of disgust in himself. "We'll find you an inn, little bird. A bath and hot food and a bed. And so long as it's safe to do so, we'll stay until you're better."

They did not have to ride far; mere hours after they rejoined the kingsroad they came upon a cluster of homes, a village slightly larger than the one they'd stopped in so long ago. Sandor led her to the inn, letting her lean on him, wanting to carry her but sure that others would raise questions if he said he needed a room for himself and his squire and said squire was draped in his arms like a child, regardless of whether or not the squire was ill.

"I'll need a room," he insisted to the nearly toothless man who kept the inn. "A room, some wine and something hot and easy to eat – stew, preferably. And a bath. My squire has caught a fever on the road."

The innkeep eyed Sansa. "You best not be bringing something dangerous into my inn," he said shrewdly.

"The boy caught a chill, is all. I've got the gold, now give us what I ask," Sandor ordered, holding out a stag for good measure. The innkeep snatched up the coin, bit it, and nodded.

"Aye."


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

The fever came on slowly.

At first Sansa had thought that the aching all over her body was simply from riding so much, and she had been so tired for so long that when she began feeling light-headed she assumed it must be from lack of sleep. But then she awoke one afternoon after their rest with fire in her throat and by the time the following morning dawned her head was pounding so hard she could barely see straight. Thankfully the Hound decided to stop again, and she hoped sleep would cure her - only the next time she woke up she felt as if she had swallowed a box of sewing needles and they were stuck in her throat, and the fire that burned there seemed to radiate throughout her entire body so that she could barely stand.

She had no choice but to ask him to find an inn and was surprised that his anger with her was not more potent when she did so. In fact he was gentle and nearly _kind_ about it, and as she drifted in and out of consciousness during the few hours that they rode she could feel him glancing back at her quite often. When he finally helped her down from her horse and wrapped a strong, steady arm around her she leaned against him in relief. Sansa's body was now wracked with chills and though she felt somehow both hot and cold the warmth of his body against hers felt like the seven heavens must feel.

The innkeep had them wait as he prepared a bath and stocked their room with food and drink, but as soon as the man's back was turned the Hound swept her into his arms and rushed her up the stairs, depositing her on the pallet with a gentleness she'd not thought possible from him. "We must avoid calling for a septon or a maester if it's at all possible," he rasped. "It's not safe."

Sansa knew that he was right in this, but in her feverish state she was scared. _What can he know of caring for a fever? _she wondered, and it was almost as if the Hound had heard her thoughts when he mumbled, "I had a sister, once, and she took care of me when I was sick. I know that we must get you into the bath, that food and wine may help as well. Little bird, I -" He stopped, obviously struggling for the right words, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture that told of the inner fight he was having with himself. She was nervous; she knew what must happen and yet every highborn instinct in her was screaming at the impropriety of it all. Still, she reached out and touched his arm with her hand, her fingers fluttering with fever and fear.

"It's all right," she whispered. "Please, I...I will need you to help me undress and...and climb into the tub."

He nodded stiffly and reached for her, curving one thick arm around the small of her back to hold her up as they fumbled to remove her clothes. When she was down to her smallclothes he hesitated, so she braced herself against him with one hand and removed them herself. She was naked as her name day now, and though some part of her felt flustered and ashamed her determination seemed to overcome all and she nodded weakly toward the tub. The Hound once again took her in his arms, effortlessly, tenderly, and lowered her into the water. She sighed in relief and let her eyes drift nearly shut, and when he dipped a cloth into the tub and began to wash her she could feel that his hands were trembling.

She wanted to reassure him, to smile at him, but her lips would not comply and so she simply let the sensations of the warm water and the rough cloth and his soft touch lull her into unconsciousness.

**SANDOR**

He had to remember how his sister had nursed him; he could not have come so far with his little bird only to lose her to a fever that he never should have let happen in the first place. Gods, even in illness she was beautiful, but though he could not control his body so well as he would like his desire was purely physical as he looked upon her, touched her, _bathed_ her. At some point during her bath the little bird fell asleep, and when the water began to go cold he lifted her from the tub and again steadied her against one arm as he dried her with a blanket, trying to ignore the drowsy sigh that escaped her lips when he used the blanket to blot between her legs. He lingered there a moment too long, allowing his knuckles to brush the inside of her thigh before thinking, _What a dog you are, touching her like this when she can neither do nor say anything in response._

Sandor wrapped her in a second blanket and sat her on the bed. "Little bird," he murmured, shaking her gently. "You must eat and drink." She gazed at him through bleary eyes.

"Can't," she slurred.

"Yes, you can. You will," he insisted. He took up the jug of wine and the stew that the innkeep had left in the room and began to feed her, feeling with each spoonful that he placed into her mouth that this was possibly the most intimate thing he had ever done for a person other than his sister. Every few spoonfuls he lifted the jug of wine and made her take a small sip, and when half the bowl of stew was gone he set it down. "That's enough, I think, unless you want more."

The little bird shook her head. "No. Thank you," she sighed, and he snorted involuntarily. He had essentially just force-fed her, yet still she _thanked_ him. He stood, thinking to leave her to her rest while he enjoyed some of his own wine in the common room, but with a feather-light touch she brushed her fingers against his arm and mumbled, "Please...don't leave me. Don't want to be...alone." He could see the physical effort that it took for her to say this, but he did not know how to respond.

"You need to rest. To sleep," he said lamely. With one pale, tiny hand the little bird made a weak gesture to the empty space next to her on the pallet.

"C...cold," she replied by way of explanation.

Sandor heaved a sigh._ Wanting_ to stay with her was not the issue; whether or not he should, even if she _was_asking him...

"Please," she whispered again, and he knew that he would not be able to leave her. Instead he sighed, a sound that ended in a frustrated growl, and made for the washbasin. He removed his tunic and used the other cloth the innkeeper had left to scrub the grime from his arms, face and neck before kicking off his boots and returning to the little bird's bedside. She was huddled under the coverlets now, yet he could see that she was shivering. _Can you do this, dog?_ he asked himself. _Can you lie with her and keep her warm and do nothing more?_

The problem was, he did not know the answer to these questions - but he did know that his only real choice was to try. With a resolved grimace he lowered himself onto the pallet next to her, crawling under the coverlets. He could once again feel the heat radiating from her body, the same way he had the first time they had shared a bed, though now it was blazing sort of heat, unnatural and worrisome. She was still shivering as well and he knew what he needed to do, though of course he _shouldn't_ do it.

_Bugger it all,_ he thought as he rolled onto his side and wrapped his arms around Sansa Stark, pulling her toward him until her back was pressed into his chest. She stiffened for a moment, but his warmth and the fact that he ignored the urge to cup her breasts or grind his hips into her arse seemed to break down her barriers. Soon the little bird had relaxed against him, and though her breathing remained quick and uneven he knew that was due to the fever and that she was in fact asleep.

_Enjoy this while you can, dog. Once her fever breaks it will be back to separate bedrolls, if she has a choice in the matter._

Deep down, he knew he would let her make that choice.


	6. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

She did not think she had ever felt so _cold_. She was a child of the North of course, and though she had seen little and less of true winter she had certainly experienced bitter winds and summer snows. But this, this...it was just different, awful. She had forced herself to swallow the stew and wine that the Hound gave her, watching his hand and remembering how just minutes before those rough knuckles had brushed the soft, sensitive skin on the inside of her thigh. _I_ sighed,_ I could not help it, what a silly little girl he must think I am..._

Had she not already been so flushed with fever, Sansa probably would have gone red with embarrassment just then. Instead she meekly ate until he told her she could stop, and then hunkered down into the pallet and begged this man, the man who for so long had frightened her with his burned visage, angry eyes and harsh words, to stay with her, lie with her, keep her _warm_.

Simply put, she needed him. Yet when he did lie beside her, when he held her, there was as always that moment when their close proximity and the knowledge that he wanted her made her tense with fear. But he was warm, so warm, and some base instinct in her took over and she relaxed and finally fell asleep.

The days that followed were something of a blur. The Hound must have left her alone from time to time but more often than not he was there, feeding her, helping her drink water or wine, placing cool cloths on her fevered head, bathing her again, holding her at night to keep her warm.

And Sansa dreamed. Or maybe they were nightmares, but most of the time she did not understand them so what did it matter? A dog in a cage, a dog on fire, a dead man and a wolf and a strange red priest holding court. The dreams made her restless, yet she was still so weak that she could not keep herself awake in an attempt to avoid them.

Then came the night when she knew she was having a nightmare. Everything was red and there was a clanging din in her head and a jester with blood spurting from his throat and a headless giant and above it all rose a hideous ghost with dead hair and long vertical scratch marks on its face...

Sansa awoke with a gasp, sitting up so quickly that she nearly fainted. The fire in the hearth had burned down to mere embers and the room stunk of smoke and sweat and once-hot food that had been left out in the open. Her chest was heaving and her body was damp with perspiration but she felt comfortably warm, not too hot or too cold, and she was ravenously hungry.

Beside her the Hound had sat up as well. He had been holding her again, or rather he was draped over her, and at the moment her right shoulder was pressed into his chest and she could feel his right leg curled over her thighs. Sansa blushed and attempted to extract herself from this completely improper position, but he reached around and turned her toward him and asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she said carefully, looking away from him in her embarrassment. "I...I had another nightmare." She felt like such a child; how many times would she wake him from a sound sleep merely because she'd had a bad dream?

The Hound certainly seemed angry enough, just then. He drew away from her quickly, a low growl rising in his throat. "Truly, girl?" he rasped. Eyes wide, Sansa nodded. She did not know what to say. The Hound paused for a moment, then said with barely contained rage, "I could have raped you bloody and left you in King's Landing. Or I could have waited until we escaped and taken you any one of a dozen times these past weeks. Likely when you caught this fever I should have left you for dead, but instead I've _cared_ for you...yet still you have nightmares about me?"

Sansa could feel the weight that he put on the word "cared" - she knew that he did not mean that he had merely nursed her. Yet she was also confused. "My nightmare...it was not about you," she said slowly. "Why...why would think that? You've been...kind...to me." That last part was true, though at the moment being so close to him, alone in a room in an inn together with his words about raping her echoing in her head, was nearly as unsettling as the dreams she'd been having.

**SANDOR**

How many times in the past few days had he thought about how grateful the little bird would be when she finally awoke from her illness? Even if he only received her usual courtesies, at least now they would be genuine rather than forced. _They must be_, he told himself.

But then she had awakened and for the first time since they had arrived at the inn, she had all her wits about her - and the first thing she did was tell him that she'd had a nightmare. _Ungrateful little cunt,_ he thought, and then the words were spilling out of his mouth and he saw the shock and confusion plain on her face and suddenly Sandor felt like a complete and utter fool. _She never said her nightmares were about you,_ he realized, and when she admitted that he had been kind to her he had to close his eyes for a moment and collect himself.

And then he felt her hand on his face. The good side of it, of course, but she was touching him nonetheless and like the dog he was he could not help but lean into her caress. When he finally opened his eyes she was peering up at him, and she did not remove her hand when she asked, "Why are you so angry with me?"

"Little bird," he sighed, his voice strained. "You're a foolish girl, it's true, but it's not you I'm angry with."

The relief on Sansa Stark's face was so obvious, so pure, that had she not still been cupping his face tenderly in her pretty little hand he may have laughed at her. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then closed it, dropped her gaze to the pallet beneath them, and bit her lip before finally whispering, "Thank you for making me better."

Sandor couldn't help himself. He reached up and curled his thumb and forefinger around her chin, applying a gentle upwards pressure until she looked at him again. He knew what he _ought_ to say, but somehow the words still came out wrong, a growl of a question. "You're well, then?" She gave a small nod in reply and though he knew that his smile was not an attractive thing, he forced one anyway, and when she smiled softly and prettily in return he had to suppress a sudden urge to press his lips to hers. Instead he let go of her chin and backed away, nearly stumbling in his haste to get off the pallet. "If you dress, I'll take you to the common room for a proper meal and we can have the innkeep clean up in here," he blurted. The air was stale and stuffy in their room; it would be good for both of them to get away from it for a while.

The little bird tried to stand, but she was having trouble, so weak from being off her feet for days on end that he could see she would not be able to dress herself or walk without support. He moved to help her, then stopped for a moment, unsure of himself. She seemed to understand his struggle, or at least to partly understand it, because she gave him a weak smile and held out her arms. "Will you help me?" she asked.

"What, no 'please'?" he retorted automatically, regretting the words the instant they left his mouth, hating himself for the way her face fell as she dropped her arms back to her sides. Sandor squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, remembering the feeling of her hand on his cheek, and when he opened them again he moved toward her, bending to help her up and saying gruffly, "It was only a jape, girl."

The little bird gave him a watery smile and he proceeded to help her dress, noting how gaunt and pale the fever had left her yet still feeling a stirring in his loins, a stirring that he'd lately gotten quite adept at ignoring. When her soiled shift had been discarded, and she was once again dressed as a boy Sandor wrapped a steady arm around her waist and asked, "Can you manage the stairs?" She sighed in response.

"It would be easier if you carried me," she admitted, and he felt a thrill go through him, though he knew he could not walk into the common room with his squire in his arms. He chuckled at the thought and the little bird looked away, abashed.

"This will have to do," he insisted, wanting to say so much more yet not trusting himself to do so. The little bird made a tiny little jerk of a nod with her head and he guided her from the room, his mouth already watering at the thought of the jug or two of wine he'd allow himself now that she was feeling better.


	7. Chapter 7

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

She carefully spooned the lumpy porridge into her mouth, washing it down with sips of wine from the cup that the Hound had poured for her. Sansa watched him carefully, thinking about how gentle he could be one moment, how angry the next. She truly did not understand him, yet she felt affection for him all the same. He had rescued her, he had not harmed her though he could have, and then he had stayed by her side and nursed her back to health.

He had _cared _for her, he said.

He _did_ care for her.

Sansa must have been smiling at him because suddenly the Hound narrowed his eyes at her. "You look insipid," he snapped, and she pursed her lips in annoyance.

"Insipid?" Sansa had never been a great reader, much preferring her songs - but she was surprised he of all people knew a word that she had never heard before.

"Dull. Empty-headed," the Hound shrugged, taking a long pull from his second jug of wine. She bristled.

"A silly little bird, no doubt," she hissed.

"Weren't you supposed to be mute, _little bird_?" he snarled in return. Sansa felt her face go hot and focused on her porridge again. They were alone in the common room; even the innkeep had disappeared after serving them. If no one was around to hear her speak, why was it so important that she be mute?

"I would like to go back to the room now," she finally whispered, after many long moments of silence. How was she ever going to be able to thank him properly for all that he'd done, if every time she touched him or smiled at him or spoke to him he nearly bit her head off?

The Hound grunted in frustration, but he did stand and help her up, balancing her on one arm while he held the half-empty wine jug in his other hand. He seemed steady enough but Sansa eyed the wine with distaste, remembering how he had scared her the last time he had been truly drunk, the night of the battle with blood on his face and wildfire reflected in his gleaming gray eyes. If there was only some way to ensure he would remain sober, at least for tonight. Tomorrow she would be well on her way to feeling truly herself again, but until she could stand and walk and dress without his assistance...

"I'd like a bath, please," she suddenly blurted, though as the words left her mouth she knew that no matter how good the idea _seemed_, in essence it was not the best option which she could or should have come up with.

"Seven hells," he muttered. "It can't wait until tomorrow?"

"No," she said, determined to stand her ground.

When they returned to the room he deposited her unceremoniously on the bed. "I'll have the innkeep ready the bath. Hold your tongue while he's in the room."

"Yes, _ser_," Sansa said under her breath, shocked at her own audacity. But either the Hound did not hear her or he simply did not care to respond, for in a moment he had left her alone in the room to brood.

By the time he and the innkeep had returned and filled the tub for her bath, Sansa had drifted into a sort of half-sleep and the Hound had to shake her awake. "You wanted this bath, you'd best take it," he rasped. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, having forgotten for a moment why she'd wanted a bath at all - until she saw that he had a fresh jug of wine. His third. She set her jaw and beckoned for him to help her up. He gripped her upper arm tightly while she peeled off her squire's clothes, and when she was finished she saw that she had finally caught his attention, though it was obvious that he was at least _trying_to not stare at her.

"The bath?" she finally said, when he merely stood there holding on to her arm, his eyes darting around the room yet continually landing on her. His head jerked, a sort of nod, and he led her to the tub and helped her in and though one hand pressed against her back for far too long and the fingertips of the other brushed against the area under her arm where her breast began to swell, as soon as she was sitting in the water the Hound backed away and turned around, once again concentrating on his wine.

**SANDOR**

_Bugger it all, I've drank too much,_Sandor realized.

He hadn't been drunk since the night of the battle. How long ago had that been, now? Close to a month at the least; maybe longer. The innkeep's wine was cheap and sour but also potent and just one jug had rendered him light-headed. Then the seven-times-damned little bird had kept staring at him, _smiling_ at him, and he thought _she's mocking me_.

By the time he helped her into the tub he had started on his third jug of wine and _gods_, he wanted to touch her. He left one hand on her back far longer than necessary, but when she bent to fold herself into the water and his other hand grazed the side of her breast he felt his breath catch in his throat. But she didn't say a word, didn't even look at him, and he retreated from her, back to the wine, withdrawing into himself and wondering what in the seven hells he was doing. After some time he tired of her constant sighing and turned to kneel by the side of the tub. "Look at me," he ordered. The little bird obeyed, and for a long moment they merely stared at each other - until _she_ spoke first.

"How can you be so kind to me when you think I won't notice, and then so horrid to me every time I try to..."

He laughed, a harsh bark of a sound that startled her just the way he wanted it to. "Try to what, little bird? Do you think you can strike up a pleasant conversation with me? Talk about the weather, maybe, or about how much we miss our parents? Or the opposite, perhaps...share evil tales of the Lannisters? We are not equals, and we are not friends."

For a moment Sansa Stark's lip trembled and he felt a surge of something that was half triumph and half disgust in himself, but she did not cry. Instead she turned her head to look at the fire in the hearth and said, "No, we are not equals. You are twice my age and the son of a minor household; I am but a silly bird and the daughter of a traitor. But if we are not friends, what are we?"

The silence stretched between them and for once he could not find his usual harsh words. Instead, when he spoke it was what he'd wanted and meant to say every time she had been near him for months upon months now. "I'd not want you for a friend, little bird." He reached out and twisted her auburn locks in his hand, balled them up into his fist and gently turned her head back so that she was looking at him again. "Do you know what I want from you?"

She was frightened, he could see it in her eyes, yet she shocked him by nodding. "I'd like to hear you say it out loud," she said, and he saw her then in all of her Northern strength.

"Aye," he agreed after a long moment. He let her hair fall back into the water and brushed his knuckles along her soft cheek before cupping his hand around the back of her neck and sliding closer to her. "I want to protect you, little bird. I want to keep you safe. I want you to sing for me and I want you to touch my face and to look on me without flinching. I want to kiss you, every morning and every night and every other quiet moment we can steal in between those times. And when you're old enough I would bed you, would marry you if I could and maybe we could even have pups of our own, little wolf-hounds. I'd show you every day how false and yet how true all of those songs that you love are." With every word he was leaning closer, so close, and he could feel her trembling but she did not move or look away.

His lips brushed hers, gently at first. He had kissed women before but they had always been unwilling ones, or whores, and neither was anything like this. She was still for a moment, until he moved his mouth over hers and caressed her lips with the tip of his tongue, exploring her, marveling at her willing innocence. She moved her mouth as well and though for a brief moment it was awkward they quickly fell into a rhythm that was so soft and sweet he nearly wanted to cry. He broke the kiss then, pulling away almost abruptly, his breathing haggard. She cupped his cheek as she was wont to do and he shuddered as he leaned into her touch, closing his eyes against the uncomfortable tightness in his pants. _She's a child_, he reminded himself, _and you vowed to keep her safe._


	8. Chapter 8

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

With her hand still caressing Sandor's cheek, Sansa whispered, "I'm a woman flowered, my lord. Had you not saved me from King's Landing, Joffrey would have likely wedded and bedded me by now." His eyes snapped open, but before he could respond she continued, "If that is what kissing you is like, I would rather kiss you every morning and every night and a hundred times in between than be the wife of that bastard king."

He was struggling against something, she could see this, and finally he reached up and pulled her hand away from his face. "You're just a girl," he muttered. "Whether you're flowered or not."

Sansa felt both relieved and disappointed and could not decide which of the two was the stronger reaction. Sandor was trying to pull his hand away but she was holding it, as tightly as she could manage in her weak state, and he finally relented and stopped trying to move away from her. They sat there for a long while, he crouching next to the tub, she relaxing in the water with his hand in hers. Finally she asked him to help her out and he did, gently, wrapping her in a dry blanket and leading her to the pallet. "I'd like to sleep some," she admitted. "I think tomorrow is too soon, but maybe the next day we could move on?" Sandor's nod seemed stiff, forced, but it was a nod nonetheless and so Sansa stretched out under the coverlets and patted the empty spot beside her. His eagerness was apparent, as was his doubt. _He is constantly at war with himself,_ she thought sadly.

Eventually he removed just his boots and lay beside her. She reached for him then, draping an arm over his waist and pulling her body into his, planting soft, hesitant kisses on his collarbone, the side of his neck, his chin, the corner of his mouth, until he placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. "Little bird..." he said. "You should sleep."

She sighed. She wanted him to kiss her again, kiss her like he had when she was in the tub and the feel of his lips on hers had sent a shiver up her spine and made butterflies take flight in her stomach. But if she only wanted a kiss and he had to restrain himself from taking more...with a frustrated shake of her head Sansa obeyed, burrowing into him and focusing on his hand stroking her hair rather than on his stiff manhood pressing into her leg as she drifted into a heavy, restful sleep.

They did not speak much the next day. Sandor spent some time caring for the horses and negotiated with the innkeep for some food and wine while she tried to gather her strength for when they would finally leave the inn. Sandor had been awake and out of bed already when she had risen this morning and though their interactions seemed a bit strained Sansa felt that was more due to the hovering innkeep than any sort of regret about their kiss.

Or perhaps she hoped rather than felt that that was the case.

It was early when they retired to their room. "We'll leave before dawn," Sandor informed her. "That way they don't see which way we go. Something about that innkeep..." Sansa thought he was being unreasonably suspicious but she didn't argue with him - she felt nearly herself now, and she was eager to be on her way home again. That, and maybe once they were traveling and away from the inn, she would no longer have to pretend to be a mute. _At least not _all_ of the time, _she hoped.

Sansa was in bed first again, wearing the shift that she had rinsed in the washbasin and laid out to dry. When Sandor finally lay down next to her she inched herself backward until she was stretched out against him. He tensed and for a long moment remained still, but finally, _finally_, he snaked an arm around her waist and held her as he had while she had been sick. She heard herself make a tiny little moue of appreciation and was about to drift off to sleep when she felt him prop himself up on his elbow. He reached down and pushed her hair back, off her neck, away from her face, tenderly tracing the curve of her neck where it dipped to meet her shoulder, his hand moving down over her collarbone, his touch soft yet insistent as it moved over her chest.

And then her breast was in his palm and he was pressing into her, holding her against him as he bent to her ear and whispered, "Little bird."

**SANDOR**

_So much for restraint_.

Sandor had never been adept at denying himself whatever he wanted, be it whores or drink or a good fight. He wouldn't take what Sansa Stark wasn't willing to give - he hoped, anyway - but during the day he had come to the decision that he would in fact bring her back to her family, and who then knew when he would have this chance again? He would offer himself as her sworn shield, but would her protective mother and kingly brother allow it? And even if they did he and the little bird would be constantly surrounded by those who would watch his every move, waiting for him to slip, waiting for him to prove that he was still a Lannister dog.

Before he knew it his hand was on her breast and he could feel her body trembling as he pressed himself against her. When he whispered his name for her, "Little bird", Sansa squirmed out of his grip and rolled onto her back, so that he was hovering half above her. She reached up and pinched a lanky strand of his hair between her fingers, tugging on it just enough to make him lower his lips to hers. Just before he kissed her she said, "We...we mustn't...shouldn't..." But he could not formulate the words for a reply and instead merely nodded and pressed his lips to hers, the ferocity of his kiss increasing when she sighed into his mouth and snaked her arms around his neck to bring him closer. His right hand trailed up her left side until his thumb and forefinger were curved around the bottom of her breast and he instinctively moved his hips against her thigh, groaning as his erection was crushed between their bodies. There was a surprised intake of breath on the little bird's part and he pulled back, concerned for a moment until he realized that she was still trying to kiss him, her eyes drowsy with sleep and with something else that may have been lust.

He was stymied. Somehow, some way, the little bird thought that she _wanted_ him? Sandor found himself gently pushing her away, brushing an auburn lock from her forehead as she traced circles on the back of his neck with her fingertips. "I think that's enough, little bird," he said, and when something like a pout appeared on her swollen lips he felt a thrill go through him. If he kept going he would not stop, not if she continued to look at and kiss him like that. As it was he needed a drink, a jug of wine - _or three_, he chuckled to himself - but of course that would have to wait for tomorrow. He also wanted her to sing for him, but that would have to wait even longer, wait until they were safe at Riverrun or maybe Winterfell.

"My lord?" his little bird chirped, an open question that he could not answer.

"I'm no lord," he replied instead.

"You are no ser, either," she mumbled idly. Sandor chuckled again.

"Decidedly not, little bird," he agreed as he stretched out on the bed and clutched her to him, wondering how many more nights like this he would have with her before she was once again someone else's little bird.

_You can make her always yours,_ something inside of him hinted, but with a low growl he pushed that thought to the back of his mind and let Sansa Stark's rhythmic, healthy breathing lull him to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

_I've upped the rating on this to "M" at the suggestion of a reviewer. Sorry if anyone read anything they wouldn't have bothered with because I had this rated "T". I suppose I should have changed it before posting those last two chapters but to be honest the reason I didn't do so was because I've read other fics on here that had similar imagery and yet were rated "T" (and I think once I even saw one that was lower) and thought that maybe with my first fic I rated it TOO high for the first like 19-20 chapters or so... So again, sorry if the "T" rating on the prior two chapters offended anyone!_

**SANSA**

When she awoke in that gray period before dawn, Sansa glanced up at Sandor's unusually peaceful face and scowled petulantly. Deep down she knew that he had been right to pull away from her, that it had needed to happen, but there was a very unladylike part of her that wished he hadn't. He had touched her breast, something no man had ever done to her before, something no man but her husband should have ever been _allowed_ to do...but when he kissed her and touched her there was an inexplicable warm sensation that started in her woman's place and radiated through her body and made her forget what she shouldn't do and want, want, _want_...

Sandor opened his eyes and peered down at her. "Is it morning?" he rasped. She hated that it was, hated that they would have to leave this bed and travel again, hated that once she reached her family this intimate time with her Hound would become a distant memory. But she nodded anyway.

Sansa waited until they were well away from the inn before she asked, "Will we go to Riverrun?" Sandor eyed her warily and did not answer, so she prompted, "How far is it from here?"

"Not sure," he grunted. She could see that she had upset him somehow, frustrated him, but she was so very tired of his extreme moods and she hoped to cheer him.

"Will you stay with me, once we're there? I'll tell them how you saved me," she offered brightly.

He seemed suddenly sad. "You must prepare yourself, girl - your brother, your mother, they will likely refuse any help I offer, regardless of what you tell them."

"And that means we should not try?" asked Sansa, exasperated. Sandor merely shrugged in response, then reached for one of the wineskins he had purchased from the innkeep and popped it open. She almost wanted to ask him to put it away, because what good would he do her as a guard if he was drunk...but he already seemed upset with her and she was loathe to make things any worse. Instead she went mute again, wondering how they had so quickly taken so many steps backward. She watched him nurse the first wineskin and she felt a bit better about his drinking until he opened the second - by the time she had to ask him to stop he was on his third and seemed to be growing more and more sullen. "Please may we rest? I'm tired...I don't want to get sick again so soon..." she begged.

Sandor glanced at the sun, which had all but disappeared, its last rays bathing the world in a soft golden glow. "I suppose," he agreed with little reluctance. There had been fewer and fewer groves of trees as they made their way into the Riverlands, but they were able to find a tall hedgerow with a small river not far behind it; they could make camp behind the hedgerow and stake the horses on the lower ground near the water and thus be out of sight of anyone passing. Sandor helped her down from her horse and removed their things, then led the animals toward the water while she carefully laid their bedrolls side by side. When he returned from tying up Stranger and her palfrey he stopped short at the sight of their bedding, a pained look on his face. She stared up at him innocently, holding their dinner - some bread and hard cheese and a wineskin to accompany it - in her hands. He finally threw himself down next to her and took the wine, drinking from the skin as if it was the last thing he'd do. She gingerly held the bread out to him but he batted it away.

Sansa bit her lip to hold back the tears. Why was she so often _crying_ around him, or at least nearly doing so? "Will you please tell me what I've done to anger you so?" she whispered, and Sandor coughed on the wine he was swallowing, forced to catch his breath before he could answer her.

When he did he merely replied, "You've done nothing, little bird. I'm simply an angry man."

His words made Sansa sad and she turned to him, gently pushing his arms out of the way so that she could crawl into his lap and lay her head on his strong, broad chest. "You don't have to be so angry anymore," she told him. "We can stay together. I promise."

**SANDOR**

Sandor Clegane was at war with himself, and he did not like it.

For so long he had lived simply, never expecting more than was his due, loyal to the hands that fed him, his only real desire being that some day, _some day_, he would be the one to give his brute of an older brother his comeuppance.

Sansa Stark had changed all that. Her innocence, her naivete, and her courtesy...which he had once thought false but soon realized was simply _her_, and the only armor she had...it had made him question so much of what he'd done. Not Gregor, though. _Never _Gregor.

And for all that he wanted her, wanted her so badly he could _taste_ it...but he would not give in to his baser instincts, for if he did he would lose her completely. So he was bringing her back to her family, and her family would take him captive, perhaps kill him...at the very least send him off with his tail between his legs. _That's it, then. No matter _what_ I do I will lose her,_ he realized.

So he drank his day away and was more than happy to oblige when the little bird asked to stop for the night. She laid their bedrolls out right beside each other, though, and while he hemmed and hawed over how to fix that situation, how to possibly keep his distance from her, she weaseled her way into his lap and then he could smell her sweet feminine scent and she promised to stay with him and he was drunk and he said the first - and _worst _- thing that came to mind.

"You promise to stay with me, little bird?" he snarled. Though her head remained against his chest she nodded vigorously, the movement bunching up his tunic. He continued, "Would you still want to stay with me if I told you that up until yesterday I was not planning on bringing you to your family? That I was going to keep you for myself and take you across the Narrow Sea? Braavos, I think. One can truly hide in a place like Braavos."

She was looking at him now, confused. "Across the Narrow Sea?" she asked, and then tried to rationalize his words. "Just for a while, you mean. To make sure that I was safe from the Lannisters."

"No, little bird," he insisted, gently pushing her from his lap. "For as long as I felt like keeping you there. Maybe forever."

"I don't believe you."

Her stubborn naivete was at once endearing and frustrating. "You should. I am, after all, a dog."

"And whose dog are you - your own, or mine?" Her blue eyes were on fire now, and he had to admit that she had a point. He _was_ hers, had been hers for longer than he cared to admit. "You are saying these things because you are _drunk_."

"Maybe I am, but that doesn't mean they aren't true," he sneered.

She backed away from him then and stared at her hands for a long moment. "Why did you change your mind, then?"

Sandor felt his face soften involuntarily. She did not ask why he had wanted to take her away, did not ask if he had meant the things he'd said just two nights prior...she merely wanted him to explain his change of heart. Yet he could not bring himself to do it, knowing that anything that had happened between them these past weeks could not last. He had fallen too far, was in too deep, but the only reason she had attached herself to him in the first place was because she thought he was some version of a knight in shining armor, and it certainly couldn't be difficult to make her see the light. "You're a child and I'm not fit to care for you. You could have died of that fever - "

"But I didn't," she muttered adamantly.

"No, you didn't, but that doesn't change the fact that you belong with your mother. _Winter is coming_, little bird, or did you forget? Now go to sleep, I'm going to climb up under this hedge and keep watch." He refused to look at her as he took up another wineskin - his fourth, was it? - and squeezed through a small nearby opening in the hedgerow. He could see the overgrown path they had been traveling from here, so he sat heavily in the dirt and pulled the cork from the skin to take a long pull. Surely they would reach Riverrun in a few days' time, and perhaps now the little bird understood that it would be best to keep her distance from him.


	10. Chapter 10

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

_Winter is coming._

_Family, duty, honor._

What were the Clegane words, then, or did they have words at all? Once Sandor had told her, "A hound will die for you, but never lie to you"...but Sansa didn't think those were anyone's words but his.

He was not lying to her now, she knew - he had meant to steal her away across the sea, apparently to Braavos, but then he'd decided to bring her to her family after all. He would bring her to them and he would leave her with them and suddenly she was not sure which would be the worse of the two scenarios. To be stolen away, initially against her will, but to remain safe with him, to lose themselves in an entirely new life...or to be brought back to those she barely knew anymore and to see him leave her, to never again feel so protected, so wanted...to never again feel his lips on hers or to brush her fingers over his brave scarred face...

Sansa finally lay down on her bedroll and curled up under her cloak, wondering if he would come sleep beside her at all. She tried to stay awake but couldn't, as weak as she was from riding all day, and when she did fall asleep it was heavy and dreamless and she awoke to the sound of baying dogs and the hooves of horses, followed by shouting. She sat up abruptly. "Sandor," she hissed, but she could not see him. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Sansa stumbled toward the spot in the hedge where he had disappeared the previous evening - but he was gone, and through the branches she could see a group of maybe a dozen men. Their backs were turned to her but when one of them called out, "You'll never believe this, we've caught the Lannister dog!" she propelled herself forward, shoving through the hedge, through these strangers, to throw her arms around the drunk, disoriented Sandor.

"Leave him _alone_!" she cried.

"What's this, then, Hound? With all we hear of you, you don't quite sound like the fatherly type," one of the men said. He was stocky and old, older than Sandor at least, and his weak chin sent a quiver through Sansa.

"I'm his squire," she spat. "What has he done, why are you accosting him?"

"What has he _done_?" the weak-chinned man asked incredulously. "If you're his squire, you must know quite a bit of what he's _done_. A Lannister dog, he is, and they're all the same. Raping and burning and killing...this one's for the cages, he is."

_Cages?_ Sansa felt suddenly sick. "You can't take him!"

"Oh yes we can," the man sneered. "And you're coming too." And then they were on her and though she struggled she was still weak and had no weapon. Sandor put up more of a fight, but there were too many of them and they'd caught him unawares. He was still in his cups as well, his eyes glazed and his steps uneven and Sansa inwardly cursed him for a drunken fool. He had promised to _protect_ her, she thought for what seemed like the hundredth time, yet he had passed out from the wine and been sniffed out by his own kind.

One of the uncouth men bound her wrists and set her atop his horse, clambering up behind her, his arms on either side of hers as he took up his reins. _If he moves in the wrong direction, just a bit, he'll find out quite quickly that I'm a girl,_ she fretted, but there was nothing to be done for it. She watched them bind Sandor as well, kept her eyes on him, refused to look away - but he was avoiding her gaze as he'd done most of the previous day. _Look at me,_ she wanted to scream at him. _Look at me and tell me that you can fix this!_ But then the men spun their horses around and spurred them away from the hedgerow and the little river and Sansa watched the weeping willows disappear from view, her heart pounding in her chest to the rhythm of her fear.

**SANDOR**

He could not have failed the little bird any more miserably than he had. Caught by a pack of some peasant's hounds as he slept off his wine - when he was supposed to be keeping watch, nonetheless! His head was pounding and his body ached but above all he was seething with anger. _I _will_ get us out of this mess,_ he swore to himself, _and when I do I'll kill every one of these buggering arses._

For now, though, he'd have to bide his time. The men drove their horses hard and it was still morning when they reached a place that Sandor knew at first sight. _Stoney Sept. But why...?_

There was a bit of back-and-forth between the stocky, balding leader of their captors and the captain of the gate. "Any food for us today, Huntsman? Maybe a Kingslayer?" Sandor's attention was immediately caught by the mention of Jaime Lannister. Last he'd known Lannister had been a captive of the Tully's at Riverrun...had so much really changed since they'd fled King's Landing?

"No Kingslayer," the stocky man admitted. "But not a completely fruitless hunt, as is." He jerked a thumb in Sandor's direction, but the captain barely gave him a second look before shrugging carelessly and opening the gates to let them pass. The town looked different from what he remembered, but similar as well - the stone holdfast and the hilltop sept were still standing, but most of the other dwellings were mere shells of what they'd once been. At first it seemed that they were the only people in Stoney Sept, but even in his half-drunk state Sandor was more wary than most and soon he noted a handful of bowmen scattered on the roofs and some children peering from behind walls that had half-collapsed into piles of rubble.

They moved into the town square, where a group of iron cages hung near the trout fountain. The only live things in the square just now were the crows, dozens of them, and the smell of the rotting bodies in the cages made Sandor's head swim and his stomach roil. He heard someone gagging and immediately looked to the little bird. She was retching off the side of the horse and the man behind her pushed her to the ground in disgust. Sandor opened his mouth and began to shout, but someone clocked him over the head with a fist and for a moment he saw only stars. When his vision cleared he saw that though Sansa was still on her hands and knees, she had backed as far away from the cages as the men would let her and did not seem to be harmed. The pack of dogs that had sniffed them out was barking and howling and running circles around the cages and some new men appeared, men of Stoney Sept most likely, and pulled a fat dead body from one of the cages. The hounds leapt at it and began tearing it apart, and Sandor's stomach heaved, though whether it was due to that or to the fact that just then he was shoved to the ground, he wasn't sure. His captor was shouting at him, calling him a Lannister bastard and talking about spending his gold, calling it Lannister gold and Sandor wanted to growl, "I won that gold, you arse, earned it in a tourney," but then the men were lifting him and shoving him into the cage and people were throwing dung and stones and one caught him across the temple and he lost consciousness.


	11. Chapter 11

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

Everything about this was worse than a nightmare, perhaps even worse than her final night in King's Landing. The only thing that brought her any sort of relief was the knowledge that these men thought her a boy; surely if they knew her true identity at best she'd be packed up and sent back to the Lannisters for a reward, at worst...she shuddered at the thoughts of what they could do to her. When they shoved Sandor into the cage and he was knocked unconscious with a rock she thought she would faint herself. What would she do if they decided that as the Hound's squire, she was "for the cages" as well?

Just then two men approached - a Tyroshi with a beard of grey and green and a large, fierce-looking man wearing a dirty yellow cloak. "What a prize you've brought us, Huntsman!" the man in the yellow cloak boomed.

"Brought _you_?" their stocky, weak-chinned captor - apparently called the Huntsman, Sansa noted - scowled.

"The lightning lord will have this one, Huntsman," the Tyroshi announced. Sansa pushed herself to her feet, finally, and backed away as the Huntsman's dogs prowled around the newcomers, sniffing and snarling so that she thought they'd tear the men apart - until the sound of a harp and a sweet low voice distracted the animals long enough for a woman to appear and throw them handfuls of bones and fatty meat. The Huntsman opened his mouth to protest again, until the man in the yellow cloak pointed to an archer, standing in the window of a white-washed inn at the edge of the square, arrow notched and bowstring drawn.

"Seven hells, you lot are a bunch of lickspittles," the Huntsman cursed. "I _will_ get my due for this, Lemoncloak - you'll see to that. Take him, then, and I suppose you'll have his squire too?" At the mention of herself Sansa started.

"His squire?" the Tyroshi asked, and one of the Huntsman's men shoved her forward. The two men of this "lightning lord" eyed her with raised eyebrows, as if they could see straight through her lie. Now that the dogs were called off and the Huntsman was resigned to losing his prize, people were spilling from the ruins but most of all from the inn. First a passel of crudely-dressed women, whores most likely, followed by a tall and handsome young man with a shock of black hair and eyes as blue as her own, then a dirty mousy little boy, and finally the archer - and when he appeared Sansa's heart jumped into her throat. She _knew_ him! A skinny young red-haired fellow; he'd won the archery competition at her father's tournament...and _gods_, there was Harwin, Harwin of her father's guard, a man of Winterfell! Surely she could tell them that Sandor had done nothing wrong, they would understand, they would let them go or maybe even escort them to Riverrun...

The Huntsman and his followers were pulling Sandor from the cage now, shaking him awake, and Lemoncloak approached them and Sansa thought for sure that they would unbind his wrists, give him a chance to explain himself...until Lemoncloak pulled out a noose and strung it around Sandor's neck. Sandor struggled for a moment, but Lemoncloak twisted the noose tight and brought his face close to that of his captive's. "I suggest you save your strength," she heard Lemoncloak growl, but Sandor only stopped struggling when they pulled a sack over his head.

"NO!" Sansa shouted. With a strength she did not know she had, she broke away from the man who was holding tight to her arm and ran to Sandor, inserting herself between him and Lemoncloak and trying to reach for the sack, crying, "He won't be able to breathe, you'll suffocate him," wondering who these men were that Harwin, a man of the north, and that talented young archer would let them do such things when Sandor had only been caught _sleeping_. Her tears were flowing freely now and her hood had fallen back to expose her red hair but she did not care if anyone recognized her, not if they meant to choke him to death for no good reason.

And then someone else was yelling. It was that dirty little boy and he was rushing toward her, darting around the men like a cat and calling out, "Sansa!" and then Sansa realized that it wasn't a little boy at all.

"_Arya?_" she breathed as her little sister barreled into her.

**SANDOR**

_Where in the seven hells _am_ I?_ he found himself wondering. When their captors had pulled him from the cage and shaken him awake it was obvious that things had changed somehow, yet he still could think of nothing but escaping - with the little bird in tow, of course. Before he could do much in the way of fighting, though, he had a noose around his neck and a brown-bearded man nearly as large as himself was in his face and pulling a sack over his head. The world went dark and he heard Sansa Stark scream; moments later her feather-light hands were on him and she was scrambling to reach the sack but before she could remove it there was another shout, and it was someone calling "Sansa!" and his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach like a stone. _They know who she is...what have I _done...

Sansa's hands fell away from him and he heard her say her own sister's name, Arya, the little wolf-bitch who was more boy than girl and more fierce than his little bird could ever hope to be and Sandor felt a strange mixture of confusion, relief, and fear as he thought _Who _are_ these people?_

"What are you doing with _him_?" he heard Arya ask, disgust plain in her tone.

"He saved me, Arya, saved me from the Lannisters and King's Landing...he was taking me to Riverrun but that Huntsman found us...Arya, can't you make them remove that hood, make them untie him? He's done nothing wrong, he _saved_me..." The little bird's voice was desperate, pleading, but her sister merely snorted in reply.

"I'm their captive too, Sansa, and besides, I'm not doing anything nice for _him_. Come, you'd best keep away from him too...who knows what they're going to do with him...or _to_him." Sandor heard the little bird's gasp of fear, but he could tell by Arya's tone that her comment had been meant to rile him rather than upset her sister. He felt Sansa's fingers brush over his hand.

"I'll not leave you, not really. I'll make them see you've done nothing wrong," she whispered fervently, and then her touch was gone and he was being pushed forward. Someone sat him on a horse with his hands still bound and they rode and rode and rode, rode for so long that when his hood was finally removed it took several moments of blinking for him to get used to the strange red glow that filled the cave where he'd been brought. The Mad Huntsman was beside him and the man before him - the one who had removed Sandor's hood - wore awful pinkish robes and there was far too much skin hanging from his tall, lank form. Sandor quickly cast his eyes about the cave, noting as many tunnels as he could and passing over the fire and the weirwood roots and the strangers surrounding him until he saw her, there, standing with her sister and a young man and the green-bearded Tyroshi. Sandor tugged at the ropes that were binding him and they bit into his tender skin.

The man in pink was speaking to the Huntsman and Sandor suddenly realized that he _knew_ him. The red priest, the one with that cursed flaming sword who had paraded about with a shaved head and bested Sandor in at least three melees. Bit by bit Sandor began dragging their story from Thoros of Myr and the other louts, but when Beric Dondarrion himself stepped down from amongst the weirwood roots, a bag of bones covered in scars and missing an _eye_, for gods' sakes...talking of the dead king Robert, personifying a realm that was mere rocks and trees and rivers...it was all too much. He spat the only name he could find to describe these fools: "Brave companions."

They were outraged at that, he could tell, but still they persisted in calling themselves knights and throwing meaningless names at him. Sandor Clegane had committed unspeakable atrocities; he knew that better than anyone else did. Hells, there were things he'd done that only himself and the dead could speak of now. But he'd had nothing to do with the crimes these people were accusing him of, and he sure as seven hells wouldn't die for them.


	12. Chapter 12

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

****_Also...I did a re-read of the Arya chapter where Sandor fights Dondarrion just before writing this version. Of course Sansa being there would change a few things, and also I didn't want to outright plagiarize the actual book, so I did a sort of "summary" of the fight, of course from different points of view - Sansa and Sandor, to be exact - but I did try to limit the things that I changed outright. Please be gentle because to be honest these bits were _very_ hard to write :)_

**SANSA**

Though these men who called themselves the Brotherhood without Banners had been fairly gentle with her, and though she had her spitfire of a little sister by her side, Sansa was frightened. The fire made the cave glow with an eerie light, for starters, and the shadows it cast on Sandor's awful scars made him seem as terrible as she had thought him when she found him in her room the night of the Battle of the Blackwater. And when Sandor spoke he was so _angry_, though she could see from his confusion that he'd had no part in the rapes and murders the Brotherhood members were speaking of. When he spoke to them of knights the truth of his words cut her deeper than any sword ever could, and for a moment it seemed that they were _listening_to him...but then Arya, damnable Arya, rushed forward spewing nonsense about that butcher's boy again. Sansa tried to dart after Arya but the Tyroshi grabbed hold of her and clamped a hand over her mouth. She struggled but she could barely breath with him holding her this way and so she went limp, tears welling in her eyes and pooling just above the man's awful dirty fingers, fingers that kept her from proclaiming Sandor's innocence for him.

Sandor did not deny killing Mycah, even admitted that he hadn't seen the boy attack Joffrey - and then he jerked his head toward her and said, "That one there told the same tale; the butcher's boy attacked the prince. Your precious Robert certainly believed her well enough."

That hadn't been _exactly_ the case; in fact Robert had clearly seemed to favor Arya's story over that of herself and his own son...but he hadn't seemed too perturbed about the death of the butcher's boy, either, so Sansa nodded through her tears, her chin bouncing against her chest as she tried to make them understand that she agreed with Sandor's story. For a moment it looked as though they would make the Tyroshi let her go, let her speak, but then Arya snapped, "Sansa is a _liar_! She never told how it _really_happened!"

_Why is she so hateful?_ the voice in Sansa's head screamed, but it was quieted when Beric Dondarrion - or rather what was left of him - refused to kill Sandor for a crime that had no witnesses. "Trial by battle," Dondarrion proclaimed, and this "lightning lord" offered to fight the Hound himself. Sansa choked back the maniacal laugh that rose in her throat; no one could best Sandor in a fight. _No one_. Even when Dondarrion refused Sandor any armor, he removed his own breastplate to make it something like fair...and that was when Sansa's heart caught in her throat.

Of course she'd heard the rumors that Beric Dondarrion was dead; no, that he was alive; rather, that he was back from the dead...but when he had stepped down from the weirwood she merely assumed he'd never died in the first place. Losing an eye didn't kill a man, not necessarily. But the scars on his upper body told another tale - a deep crater on the upper left side of his chest, and when he turned to take up his sword and shield, a matching scar on his back. Sansa felt her heart beating in her left breast and knew that the rumors had to be true - this man had died and come to life again. He could not be killed, and now he faced Sandor, _her_Sandor...

But Sandor himself didn't seem afraid, not once he had his sword and shield in hand again, not while these men prayed to their strange god, their Lord of Light with the name Sansa couldn't pronounce.

And then Beric Dondarrion ran his blade down his palm, spilling blood on the sword...and suddenly the steel was on fire and from where she was standing Sansa saw the flash of terror in Sandor's eyes.

**SANDOR**

_This man should not be alive_, he had realized when he saw the scar from where the lance had pierced Beric Dondarrion straight through. Yet while this knowledge was confusing, concerning even, it was not until Dondarrion used his own blood to light his sword on fire that Sandor felt fear rise in his chest.

The lightning lord remained still and silent, the flames licking the entire length of the blade. _He should feel the heat, his skin should be scalding, what sort of sorcery is this?_Panicked thoughts rushed through Sandor's mind, but he thought of the little bird then and how the heat of her fever had frightened him as much or more than any flames ever had and with a roar he charged at his corpse of an opponent. Steel met steel and though Sandor could feel the scorching fire blazing on the sword he kept at Dondarrion, sending another parry that was blocked by the decrepit old shield in the lightning lord's hand. Sandor pressed on and on and on but every one of his cuts was blocked and the fire just burned brighter and fiercer. He finally gave some ground, snarling as the flaming sword drove him back and back again and then carved a large chunk out of his Clegane shield.

_I must end this_, Sandor knew. If he didn't, the fire would surely do him in; it continued to grow seemingly of its own accord. The ragged pack of so-called knights was shouting for their leader, cheering him on, but when he chanced a glance at his only champion the little bird looked so frightened he feared she would faint.

And that little look to her cost him dearly, as Dondarrion drove the flaming sword at his head and Sandor barely caught it, his heart nearly stopping as the heat of the fire beat down on his face. "Fuck," he swore, and spun away, but the undead arse was on his heels and the sword kept slashing, over and over and over again, driving him backward until the heat was not only at his front but at his rear as well. Sandor chanced another glance away from his attacker and saw that he was nearly _in_ the fire. This almost gave him pause but out of the corner of his eye he saw the lightning lord aim the fiery sword at his exposed neck. Sandor barely got his parry up in time and suddenly he understood that if he did not change things in his favor he would _lose_this fight - and his very life.

With a roar he charged again, slowly but surely moving their fight away from the fire. His entire body was covered in sweat and he knew that the wine he'd drunk the night before was slowing him up and he inwardly cursed the drink, himself, the innkeep who'd sold it to him, even Dorne for producing the vile stuff in the first place. He was so exhausted that he felt his muscles twitching and trembling; his head was pounding and his vision beginning to cloud. He blinked hard, trying to keep the dripping sweat from his eyes, and in that moment Dondarrion seemed to move forward effortlessly, once again driving Sandor back toward the fire pit, closer this time, the flames tickling the backs of his legs. He roared then, screamed at Beric Dondarrion, called him a bastard as he charged away from the fire, but the lightning lord did not step back and Sandor felt the flames of the sword on his face again.

And then he stumbled, lost his footing and fell to one knee and he whimpered as he thought _this is the end, death by fire, the worst kind of death, and above all I've failed her_. Sandor saw Dondarrion take an almost leisurely step forward and raise his sword for the final cut and Sansa Stark's visage flashed before Sandor's eyes and thank the gods it was not any one of the many terrified or frustrated looks she had given him, but the tender face she made when she cupped his cheek in her hand. "Little bird," he murmured, his voice near breaking with emotion and fatigue, and then, "_Little bird_," he growled.

Sandor threw his shield arm over his head.


	13. Chapter 13

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

She had been watching Sandor fight, wanting to look away but forcing herself to stay strong as Dondarrion beat him into exhaustion. When Sandor stumbled she closed her eyes for a moment - if this was it, if this was the end, she did not want to see it, did not want to watch, but then suddenly she felt something tug at her, an almost physical feeling that seemed to come from the inside, to pull her out of herself, and when she opened her eyes she saw Sandor raise his shield and block Dondarrion's fierce downward swing. The shield splintered with the force of it, but he was alive, _still alive_, and for a brief moment Sansa rejoiced - until she saw that the shield was writhing with flames. Her breath caught in her throat; as soon as Sandor realized that it was not Dondarrion's sword but his own shield burning he took his own sword to the thing, hacking a large chunk of it off but left with a piece clinging to his arm, a piece that flared and caught the sleeve of his tunic afire as well.

The gray-and-green bearded Tyroshi who was still holding her back yelled encouraging words to Beric Dondarrion and Sansa lifted her leg and savagely stomped down on his foot, screaming, "Stop! _Stop_!" while others around them began to call out, "Guilty!" "Kill him!" "Guilty!" Dondarrion hastened to obey the cries, but when he moved in for the final blow Sandor cut first. Sword met sword for a moment, until suddenly the lightning lord's magic sword snapped and Sandor's blade sliced Beric Dondarrion open from neck to nipple, but Sansa had eyes only for Sandor now and when the Tyroshi let go of her to run to his lord, she ran to her own. He had torn the rest of the shield from his arm and rolled in the dirt to put the fire out, but when he tried to stand he merely whimpered and collapsed back to the ground.

Sansa was at his side in a moment, tearing her cloak from her back and using it to cradle his burnt arm. When he looked at her his eyes were glittering and it was like he wasn't even there behind them, not like he usually was. She placed her cool hand on his hot, sweaty cheek and felt the tears that leaked from his eyes. "I'm burned," he rasped, but she didn't think he was truly saying it to her. She leaned forward and kissed him softly, pressed her forehead to his and assured him, "I will help you." When she raised her head she saw Arya gaping at them in astonishment. _I'll deal with her later,_ Sansa decided, and then she shouted for someone to help her with Sandor's burns. Thoros sent a woman to her side and then disappeared with Lemoncloak, a handful of other men, and Beric Dondarrion's body.

People were talking, something about R'hllor and guilt and gods knew what other nonsense, but Sansa, the singer from Stoney Sept, and the woman Thoros had sent to help Sandor were busy pulling him to his feet when suddenly Arya appeared, dagger in hand. Sandor started to speak but Sansa cut her eyes at him and he shut his mouth. She stepped forward and hissed, "That is _enough_, Arya."

"No, no, it's _not_!" her petulant little sister shouted. "He killed Mycah, he did, I want to hear him say it!"

Sansa felt Sandor shrug and squeezed his arm, willing him to not say anything stupid. "I killed him, and what of it? I was also there when your father's head was chopped off, and when they beat your sister here bloody for whatever reason they could find -"

"Stop," Sansa ordered him, and though he curled the good side of his lip at her, he didn't say any more. "He was ordered to go after the butcher's boy; he only did as he was told. Father's death is on the hands of many people, including me, but Sandor had nothing to do with it. And though every other member of the kingsguard still present in King's Landing beat me at Joffrey's behest, Sandor never laid a hand on me. He brought me away from there, in fact, and kept me safe until you lot had to come and bother us."

Suddenly Lemoncloak was back. He yanked the dagger away from Arya, who screamed in fury and cried out, "You can both just go to _hell_!"

**SANDOR**

He would have laughed at the little wolf-bitch just then, only he was too busy staring over her shoulder in disbelief at the man he had just killed brought back to life. Sandor said the only thing he could think of.

"Come to fight again, Dondarrion? What, no flaming sword this time?"

The scarred and bloody man eyed him dispassionately. "You are judged innocent, Sandor Clegane. We of the Brotherhood without Banners keep our word -"

"No knights keep their word," Sandor interrupted, the burnt side of his mouth twitching in anger.

Dondarrion sighed. "We will treat your wounds and set you free. We will even restore your horse and armor."

_My horse and armor._They were conspicuously leaving a few things out, there. "I expect to leave this place with everything that was in my possession before your Huntsman decided to ruin my day," Sandor replied warily.

"I think not," Dondarrion said. "The gold we keep; think of it as payment for the damage your own brother has done to the people and lands of this country. And Sansa Stark will remain with her sister, who will remain with us."

"No!" the little bird gasped. "You don't understand, I _want_ to go with him..." Her grip on his arm tightened and through the haze of his pain Sandor felt a surge of anger. She might not belong with him and he might know that, but he would not, _could_not, leave her with these buggering fools.

Dondarrion was eying Sansa Stark with a look of both confusion and pity. "My lady, you belong with your sister. You will be safe with us; this man can't protect you if he can't even remain sober."

Sansa started to speak again but Sandor placed his good hand on her shoulder and applied a slight pressure, so she stopped. "Not now, little bird," he croaked, and when she looked at him he saw more than he cared to in her eyes before a veil dropped over her face. She nodded. Dondarrion watched their exchange and sighed.

"Tom, Melly, take Clegane and the Lady Sansa and care for his burns. We'll be gone from this place in the morning and we will release him then. Keep a guard on him tonight."

"I will stay with him as well," the little bird insisted. The look Dondarrion gave her then was heavy and for a moment Sandor thought he would deny them this as well, but the lightning lord said nothing and then the singer and the woman were leading him - not gently - from the cavern, Sansa following in their wake. The little wolf-bitch made to come along as well, but Lemoncloak and the Tyroshi held her back and when Sansa slipped her tiny hand into Sandor's, Arya scoffed in disgust and stalked off in a different direction.

They brought him down a long dark tunnel to a much smaller alcove and leaned a burning torch against the wall to light the area as they cleaned his burns. Sandor clenched his teeth and grunted in pain, but the little bird's cold hand in his kept him from making more noise. When his arm was wrapped and Melly had left them, with Tom sitting in the entrance to keep them put, she tucked herself under his good arm and he could feel her shaking with sobs as he gently traced his fingers up and down her thigh. Forgotten were his promises to himself to leave her be, to push her away. He had almost been killed by a dead man wielding a flaming sword, and Sansa Stark, the very idea of her, was the only thing that had kept him alive.

"They will take me away from you," she whispered, her voice thick with tears.

"Perhaps they should, little bird. Dondarrion was right; I'm no fit guard for Lady Sansa Stark. Not if I can go and drink myself into a stupor and get us into a mess like this in the first place," he admitted.

"I don't care. I don't _know_ these people. That girl out there...she is so much more than the Arya I last saw in King's Landing. There is something..._wrong_...about her. You were going to take me to my family at Riverrun; they have no right to force me to go with them instead."

"No right, maybe, but they have the men. And the swords." The little bird trembled in his embrace, and he bent close to her ear so that she and she alone could hear him. "Let them take you, little bird. I will come back for you. As soon as I can, _I will come back for you_."


	14. Chapter 14

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

She slept in the crook of Sandor's arm, and in the morning the singer - Tom, he called himself - pulled her from the embrace and led them out of the caverns. Sacks were shoved over their heads before their eyes could adjust to the blinding sun and for a moment Sansa panicked, thinking that they would take him away from her now and not let her say goodbye. But she was set on a horse, a large horse, and Sandor was allowed to ride with her. He locked his arms around her in a tight embrace, and when they stopped sometime later Thoros helped them down and removed their hoods. Arya was there, and the dark-haired boy with whom she obviously kept company. Many of the other Brotherhood members were there as well, watching Sansa and Sandor carefully as they said their farewells.

"My lady," Sandor murmured, taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips to give it a kiss, the feel of the roughened scars on his burnt side sending a tingle up her arm. There was no mocking in his eyes, there was nothing, and _that _worried Sansa more than anything. "Be safe."

"Not without you," she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Remember what I told you," was his only reply, and then he released her hand, swept up onto Stranger's back, and was gone.

After several long moments one of the brothers brought her the palfrey she had ridden all the way from King's Landing. "Can we trust you to ride by yourself, now?" the man grunted. Sansa nodded dully, knowing that it was pointless to try to follow Sandor. He would never just ride in one direction, and Stranger was much faster than this little horse. The man helped her onto the palfrey's back and the group rode off. Eventually her sister was riding by her side, that dark-haired boy in their wake, looking a bit put out that Arya was outright ignoring him now.

"You're being such a _baby_," Arya announced. "Pouting over that dog like Rickon used to pout over a lost toy." Sansa tried to ignore her at first, tried to remember the way Arya had fairly thrown herself into her arms in Stoney Sept, but as usual her little sister simply wouldn't let up. "And you_ kissed_ him! If that wasn't so disgusting all on its own -"

"Hush, Arya. You have no idea what you're talking about," Sansa snapped.

"Oh yes I do! His face, Sansa, _his face_! Even Gendry is handsomer than the Hound," scoffed Arya.

"His scars prove that he was brave," Sansa whispered. "And who in Westeros is Gendry?"

Just then the boy spurred his horse up next to Arya's. "I'm Gendry, m'lady. Gendry...Waters," he said, inclining his head in an awkward little bow. Under his roughened smith's skin Sansa was sure she could see him blush crimson. _A bastard, a smith, and some sort of outlaw...where did Arya find _this_ one?_

Arya rolled her eyes. "You just shut up, Gendry. Sansa, the Hound is _angry_...that has nothing to do with bravery. Besides, he's scared to death of fire." Her dirty little face stretched into a smirk and Sansa wanted more than anything to grab a cold wet cloth and rub both the smudges and the look off her sister's face.

"And wouldn't you be if you'd been burned like him? Leave me alone, Arya. You know nothing." Sansa nudged her palfrey with her heels and the horse trotted ahead of her sister and Gendry. Some of the men looked at her curiously, and she felt as if Beric Dondarrion was constantly watching her. Though he was a Lord – or had been, once – somehow his gaze bothered her more than the scrutiny of the more uncouth men in the group.

They rode all day and through most of the night, Sansa doing her best to keep away from her sister. She wanted to believe that Arya was hurt by this, perhaps even enough to stop harping on Sansa about Sandor, but any time they got close to each other she could hear her little sister muttering under her breath - sometimes to Gendry, sometimes to herself. _She's gone mad,_ Sansa thought, and for a moment it crossed her mind to ask Arya what had happened to her this past year...but part of her didn't want to know the answer, and the other part was sure they would just argue again. _I am too tired to argue with her._

When they finally stopped the brothers ordered her, Arya and Gendry to remain hidden amongst the trees on a ridge above a small cluster of buildings - a septry, a mill, a brewhouse and some stables. Two men were set to guard them and Sansa watched as the Brotherhood attacked another group of men - outlaws or sellswords or some similar ilk - who had holed up in the septry. When the building finally burst into fire, after Sansa had already seen the archer take out a handful of this enemy of theirs, she had to look away. She focused on Arya, who was watching it all with a fierce, angry sort of joy on her face, biting her lip as if in anticipation. Sansa felt her stomach turn as she once again wondered, _Who _is_ this girl?_

The battle did not last long, and it was still morning when Lord Beric ordered the trials to begin. One by one the captured men were hung - Bloody Mummers, she'd heard someone call them, and when they were accused of atrocities similar to those that had been placed on Sandor two days prior the Bloody Mummers did not deny their crimes. Tom of Sevenstreams played a dirge on his harp and soon the crows began to arrive; over the din they made together Arya leaned toward Sansa and hissed, "They should have hanged the Hound too."

Every ladylike instinct that still existed in Sansa snapped just then, and she reached out and smacked Arya across the face. For a moment her sister looked stunned, but that was quickly hidden behind a mask of anger that made Sansa shiver as much as - perhaps more than - any awful look Sandor had ever given her. "You'll be sorry for that," Arya said, then wheeled her horse toward the brothers who had gathered near the brewhouse.

Arya sat with some of the brothers that night and talked to Lord Beric about his many deaths. The conversation generally frightened Sansa, but even she had a moment of hope when her little sister asked about bringing back a man who had lost his head. _Father..._ But the answer was no, of course, and the talk turned to the idea of ransoming Arya and herself to their mother and brother at Riverrun. Relief washed over Sansa; surely if they brought her to Riverrun Sandor would find her there! And she could tell her lady mother and Robb how gallant he had been, how he was the one who had_ really_ rescued her and how these foolish Brothers without Banners had ruined _everything_…

As the day waned into night, Tom of Sevenstreams began to play again while some of the other men set up a game of dice. Sansa dozed and thought she dreamt, a dream of a white walker knighting a handsome young man who she thought must be Renly Baratheon, so much did he look like King Robert's youngest brother.

It was the laugh that woke her, _his_ laugh, and she sat bolt upright just in time to see Gendry rising from the floor. Lord Beric, sword in hand, had been standing over the bastard boy. It hadn't quite been a dream after all, then, but all that mattered just now was Sandor standing just there in the doorway. _He said he'd come back for me, and he did, he did!_ She could almost ignore his comment about killing the sentries, because when they asked him why he was there he looked directly at her and said, "To get back what's mine." Only the brothers must not have seen his look, because they began bantering with him over the gold they'd stolen instead. The argument escalated until Arya was once again threatening to kill the Hound, leading Lem to tell Sandor that he'd do well to get back on his horse and leave.

"I'll go, once I've got the girl. And my gold." Sansa stood automatically, made to move toward him, but Dondarrion stepped between them and held her back. Lemoncloak continued to push the argument, but there was a roaring in Sansa's head that drowned his words, drowned everything except for Sandor's eyes on her and the thought that he couldn't, wouldn't, _mustn't_, leave without her...

Sandor settled his fierce gray eyes on every single person in the room, one at a time as if to memorize their faces, and last of all he locked eyes with her again. She knew then what he would do, knew that it wasn't the right time, yet she still found herself trying to push toward the door as he turned and strode back out into the night, into the rain, disappearing into the inky blackness as she struggled against the men who held her back. She heard Arya's mean little laugh from behind her. "He doesn't even want you with him, Sansa. He only wanted his gold. You're so _stupid_."

_She didn't see how he looked at you_, Sansa told herself. _He will come back again. He _has_ to come back again._

**SANDOR**

It had been stupid, walking right up to the brewhouse like that. Once he'd rode away from the Brotherhood it hadn't been long before he'd doubled back and picked up their trail. He saw that the little bird was with them when she rode down to the collapsed septry after the battle, but deep down he'd known it would be near impossible to take her from here. And the little sister, what of her? There was no love lost between Sansa and Arya Stark, that much was obvious, but would the little bird leave her sister behind? Knowing her as he did, he guessed not.

It only upset her that he showed up there and couldn't take her away, he could see it in her eyes, but he hoped that he had been able to communicate the fact that he would be back, that he wouldn't leave her - not really. He retreated and hid himself away, then followed them the next day to High Heart. Sandor could see the giant fire that they built for their camp and shuddered; it reminded him far too much of the fire in the cavern where he'd almost lost his life.

The wind was howling all around him so that he did not hear the ghastly little dwarf woman approach. When she poked him with the gnarled branch she was using as a cane he automatically pulled his sword from his scabbard and almost beheaded her. "Watch yourself, woman," he said warily, lowering his blade but leaving it out, accessible. "You'll get yourself killed sneaking up on people like that."

"Who's sneaking?" the dwarf cackled. "The dog needs to learn to pay more attention to his surroundings, _I_ think."

"What do you want of me, woman?" he snarled. Her words had bit into him because he felt how true they were, now that his not paying attention had cost him both the little bird _and_ his gold.

"To tell you of my dreams, if you pay my price."

"I care nothing for dreams and have no coin to speak of," he admitted.

"You may care for _these_ dreams, Sandor Clegane. And I do not need coin." She peered up at him for a long moment, and finally said, "Some wine will do, if you've got that."

He did. Though they'd ransacked his belongings, those Brothers without Banners, they'd left his food and wine intact. _Probably to taunt me_, he had thought when he'd found the wine the day before. He shrugged and pulled one of the skins from the pack that hung from his saddle. "Here's your wine," he muttered. "Your dreams you can keep."

But the dwarf ignored him. She settled down under a tree, her back against the trunk, and after taking a long pull from the skin she began to speak, though it seemed as if she was talking more to herself than to him. "The dog will take the bird and the wolf pup, oh yes he will, but he must beware the weasel." She paused to take another drink and Sandor rolled his eyes - the woman made half-sense at best, but gods, he hoped she was right about him taking the little bird back...

The dwarf was silent for so long that Sandor grew restless. "Anything else, then?" he barked. When her eyes shot to his face he realized that she must have withdrawn into herself for a moment; she didn't seem to know where she was as she struggled to her feet, dropping the wineskin to the ground. She began to waddle off, looking back one last time and speaking a single word, terror writ plain on her face.

"Saltpans."

And then she was moving again, muttering something about Summerhall and Jenny of Oldstones as she made for the hilltop. For a moment Sandor wondered if she would reveal his presence to Lord Beric and his group of so-called knights, but then what would it matter? The woman was clearly mad, and he would see them come down that hill after him in plenty of time to hide or escape. He settled in for the night with his back to the same tree where the dwarf had been sitting, and swore that when he lowered himself into the place she'd so recently occupied that the air was suddenly far colder than it had been just minutes before.

***Author's note: Please please please don't think I hate Arya! While she is not one of my favorite characters, I also don't outright dislike her…but I do think that after GoT she started to go a bit nutty. Since I'm writing this from Sansa's POV I'm trying to portray how a girl so very different from Arya would perceive her in her current state. ***


	15. Chapter 15

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

She did not like this place. Arya had told her it was haunted, which Sansa scoffed at, but there was something...strange...about High Heart. The fire helped things a bit, but she felt uncomfortable around Thoros of Myr and Lord Beric. She felt awful about that - these men had once been the type she would fawn over, had they been a bit younger. Jeyne Poole had certainly sighed over Lord Beric for quite some time after the Hand's Tournament.

When the dwarf woman appeared, Sansa liked that even less. Tyrion Lannister had been bad enough, with his ugly little face and mismatched eyes, but at least he hadn't looked half dead and spoken uncouthly as this dwarf did. She sold her dreams for some wine and a song, and though Arya crept closer to listen Sansa stayed at the edge of the camp - until the woman called to Arya. Sansa knew it was Arya of whom she spoke because she called her "wolf child", but no sooner had her sister edged closer to the dwarf than the woman began to sob and told Arya to be gone. Sansa rushed forward as Arya took a step back. She was angry with her sister, to be sure, but Arya had done nothing to this woman!

Sansa's appearance did not seem to alleviate the dwarf's fright. "The bird..." she whispered, her eyes darting back and forth between the sisters. Fear settled in the pit of Sansa's stomach like a stone.

"They are leaving with us in the morning," Lord Beric assured the dwarf. "They're for Riverrun, and their mother."

"Not the rivers, no, no, the only kin they've got there is the blackfish and he won't know these ones. If it's the mother you want, make for the Twins - for the _wedding_."

Taking Arya's hand, Sansa pulled her away from the dwarf, filing the woman's information away while at the same time feeling severely disappointed that her mother was not in fact at Riverrun. Tom started playing "Jenny of Oldstones" then, and Arya yanked her hand from Sansa's. "Don't you want to go listen to the song?" she griped. But Sansa had no desire for music right now, not when everything felt so wrong and Sandor wasn't here to scoff at her and remind her that life was not a song.

It rained that night and in the morning several members of the Brotherhood had been taken ill. They left High Heart then, making for a nearby abandoned village. Sansa rode beside Arya again. After her rude comment about the song they had not spoken, but they had huddled together under the blankets and kept each other warm as they'd done back in Winterfell when the summer snows dusted the ground. As frustrated as Sansa was with her sister for what had happened in the cavern, Arya was all that she had right now. Perhaps Arya was all she would have for quite some time.

Sansa listened to her sister and Lord Beric's squire talk, shocked to hear that this boy was a Dayne of Starfell, that he'd shared a wet nurse with her father's bastard Jon Snow. That this wet nurse was thought to be Jon's _mother_.A wet nurse...Sansa thoughther lady mother must not know these details, and Sansa hoped she never would. _What does it matter? Jon Snow is of the Night's Watch, our father is dead, and if this boy lives another year in this group of outlaws it will be a miracle._

At least they found shelter and dry wood for the night, though Thoros lit the fire and was staring into the flames again and this unnerved her. And for good reason - soon enough he mumbled something about "Lannisters" and rushed to Lord Beric, the two of them soon in deep conversation and casting concerned glances at herself and Arya. Finally Lord Beric beckoned for them to approach. Arya hesitated, but though Sansa was filled with dread she also _had _to know what was wrong. Was it Sandor? Their mother? Their brother? She took her sister's hand and pulled her forward.

Dondarrion ordered Thoros to explain what he'd seen, and the red priest grudgingly admitted that if Riverrun wasn't already under Lannister attack, it would be soon. Arya cried, "No!" just as Sansa thought, _I would be safe within those walls right now if not for these fools._

"Would Ser Brynden Tully know you, my ladies?" Lord Beric asked. Sansa and Arya shared a look and as Arya shook her head, Sansa whispered, "No. Nor we him...not by sight."

And then the men were talking of battles and scouts and hiding away in some Acorn place and Arya was eying her curiously and Sansa was tightening her grip on her sister's hand and then Arya nodded and together they whirled around and broke for the door. Some of the men were grabbing for them, shouting, but their move had been unexpected and in the work of a moment they were out in the rain and running for the stables. A horse nickered and Sansa pulled Arya toward the sound, but her sister hesitated for a moment. "The stables aren't _that_way," Arya shouted, confused, but then a large hand closed on Sansa's arm and she knew that they were safe. Arya tried to tear away from her but Sansa refused to let go.

Sandor's face bent to hers and she wanted to close her eyes and kiss him but there was no time, _no time_, and then he asked, "Are you ready, little bird?" Sansa nodded and he pulled them to the horses - Stranger, of course, and he seemed to have stolen her palfrey back as well. He took hold of Arya and threw her up on the palfrey, then sat Sansa behind her. "Keep a hold on her or she'll try to get away," he warned, and as he vaulted onto Stranger's back, the palfrey's reins in his hand, Sansa wrapped her arms tightly around her little sister and dug her heels into their horse and they left the abandoned village and the Brotherhood without Banners behind.

**SANDOR**

_The little dwarf cunt was right,_he thought with a chuckle. He'd followed them to the village, trying to come up with a plan the entire way, but then the little bird had flown herself - and her sister - right into his arms.

They rode hard for some hours. The rain finally let up but still the little bird looked drenched and miserable. Worried that she would catch another fever, Sandor found the most sheltered area he could, a grove of trees at the base of a hillside, and helped Sansa Stark off her horse. He reached up for Arya as well, but she scrambled down of her own accord, backing away from the two of them with wild eyes. "Sansa, how _could_you, he'll bring us back to King's Landing and give us to the Lannisters and -"

The little bird stepped forward and tried to take her sister's hand, but Arya shook her off. Sansa sighed. "He won't take us back to King's Landing, Arya. I _told_you, he brought me away from there."

"Please. He _stole_ you, maybe. And what's he done to you, to make you trust him so? Trust him _at all_? He _killed Mycah_!"

Sandor strode forward and wrapped one hand in Arya's grimy tunic, dragging her face close to his. "Say that name again and I'll beat you bloody," he rasped.

"_Sandor!_" Sansa cried. With a snarl he let go of the wolf-bitch. Sansa stepped toward her sister but Arya's glare stopped her.

"See, Sansa? You are so _stupid_. He's just a dog, a mean and dangerous dog, and he'll take us back to Joffrey like the _dog_he is!"

At the same time, Sansa snapped, "Stop calling him that!" and Sandor said, "You're the stupid one, girl. I'm taking you to Riverrun."

That silenced both Sansa and Arya Stark. Their argument suddenly forgotten - or at least put aside - they shared a fearful look, before Sansa approached him and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Not Riverrun," she said sadly. "Thoros said -"

"Bugger whatever _Thoros_said, your family is at Riverrun and I told you that I'd -"

"Shows what you know, Hound. The only family we have at Riverrun now is an uncle we've never met, and Thoros saw the Lannisters attacking it in his flames. Our mother and Robb have gone to the Twins for a wedding," Arya smirked. Sandor glared at her, but when he looked back to the little bird he saw the truth of the wolf-bitch's words. Sandor shrugged.

"The Twins it is, then, if that's where you want to go."

"_Obviously_," Arya replied automatically.

"I was speaking to your sister, you little cunt," he rasped. "Why don't you keep your mouth shut for a while?"

"Sandor, _please_..." the little bird's voice was strained. Sandor growled low in his throat, but he turned and pulled his pack from Stranger's saddle and stalked off to make camp. Before he could get very far, though, Sansa shouted and he turned to see Arya pulling at her sister's arm, trying to drag Sansa toward the palfrey, and he cursed under his breath as he rushed to her side, pulling his little bird against his chest and holding Arya Stark at arm's length.

"I'm going to have to restrain her, little bird." When he glanced down at Sansa her eyes were sad and hard at the same time as she nodded her agreement.

"Sansa!" Arya gasped, but Sansa turned her face away from her sister and buried it in Sandor's chest.

Sandor of all people knew what it was to truly hate his own kin; he did not want that for his little bird. At the same time, however, the wolf-bitch was maddening - and _dangerous_. If they couldn't keep her quiet and keep her close she could - _would_- ruin everything. He reached up and stroked Sansa's hair for a moment, then bent and said softly, "Lay out the bedrolls, little bird. I'll take care of your sister here; I'll not harm her." Sansa nodded again and extracted herself from his grasp, not even looking at her sister as she took up the pack he had dropped and began fumbling with the bedrolls. Arya struggled against him but now that he had both hands with which to hold her she was easily restrained. He took up one of the blankets and wrapped her in it, then tied ropes over that so that she was completely restrained.

"Let me _out_," Arya said through gritted teeth. Sansa approached and looked down at her sister, pity plain on her face.

"Is this necessary?" she asked.

"For tonight at least, I think," he grunted. For a moment Sandor wondered if the little bird would be upset with him, or if she would perhaps act a little colder now that her sister was there to witness anything that transpired between them – but no, Sansa slipped her hand in his again and with one last sad look at her sister turned and led him to where she'd laid their bedrolls out side by side.


	16. Chapter 16

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

She knew she ought to be miserable about Arya. She did feel a bit bad, seeing her sister trussed up like a prisoner...but Arya wouldn't _listen_ to them. _She's never listened_, Sansa reminded herself. _She's never been one to obey_.

Yet it bothered her how much Arya hated Sandor. Would her lady mother and Robb treat him the same? Or would they understand that he had saved her?

Would they understand how she needed him, how she _cared_ for him?

Her hand was clasped in his and it felt like coming home. Sansa had barely thought twice about laying their bedrolls next to each other, though she knew that with Arya nearby there should be no kissing or...anything else. She blushed fiercely at the thought of his hands on her, the way he had touched her their final night at the inn before his drinking and the Huntsman and the Brotherhood without Banners had changed everything. _Stop_, he told herself. _Arya is here, there will be no touching. Not like that._

She was shocked to realize that she was actually disappointed.

Thankfully when she lay down on her bedroll, Sandor did lay beside her and at least Arya was some paces away with her back to them. Sansa faced Sandor and clutched at the back of his head, pulling herself toward him until their noses were nearly touching. "You came back for me," she whispered.

"I promised you that I would, little bird," he rasped. She pressed her lips to his then, a closed-mouth kiss that was not quite as chaste as it seemed, and he wrapped his arms around her, crushing her to his chest. For some time she just lay there, breathing in his scent, musky and earthy and wild and _good_.

Finally she asked, "Are you still angry?"

Sandor drew a deep breath. "I'll likely always be angry."

"Even if my mother and Robb let you stay with me?"

"I've told you, girl - you need to prepare yourself for the fact that they won't allow it."

"They will so," she said stubbornly. "If they refuse I'll...I'll continue on with you. We can go back to Winterfell, where they won't know you're not supposed to be with me...or to Braavos, like you wanted."

"Little bird..." his voice was hesitant, almost sad. "Dondarrion was right about one thing. You should be with your family...and that will likely mean leaving me."

"I won't," Sansa insisted. "I won't do it." She pulled her head away from his chest and turned her face up to his again, grasping at him almost desperately. "Please, say you won't make me...I'm only safe when I'm with you..."

Sandor's eyes were glittering in the darkness as he stared at her searchingly. "Do you truly know what you're saying, girl? You would give up all you know and love because you think I'm the only one who can keep you safe?"

Sansa bit her lip. She hadn't quite thought of it like _that_, but in the end she supposed that she meant it anyway. "If you don't want to stay with me I...I understand," she lied, "but if you _would_ stay with me..."

She felt his body shudder against hers. He remained silent for so long that she worried he'd fallen asleep, or that he was trying to find a way to tell her that no, he did not want to stay with her. But he finally replied, "Your wish is my command, little bird. I am but your loyal dog." Sansa curled her lip at the awful nickname, the one Joffrey had used for him.

"You are no longer anyone's dog, Sandor. You...you are my sworn shield," she announced, perhaps a bit too loudly.

"Oh, _please_," Arya called out in a disgusted tone. "Would you two _shut up_? Or at least come loose me so that I can find somewhere quiet to sleep?"

Sansa blushed at the thought that her sister may have heard their entire conversation, but the feel of Sandor's fingers tracing gently down her spine quickly relaxed her. "Go to sleep, little bird," he rasped as he petted her.

"_Go to sleep, little bird_," Arya mocked, but Sandor only chuckled and held Sansa tighter, and soon his warmth lulled her into the first decent sleep she'd had since their last night at the inn.

**SANDOR**

The past few days had been both torture and perfection for Sandor Clegane.

It felt like years since he'd first decided to steal the little bird, first thought of taking her away to hide in Braavos with him. And then he'd decided to do the right thing, the _honorable _thing, and he'd resigned himself to losing her. But now here she was, willing to forsake her family and her home should they refuse to keep him on as her shield.

Sansa Stark had made up her mind, and if he knew anything about her it was that once she'd done so she wouldn't let much of anything stand in her way.

It continued to be necessary to truss up Arya Stark at night, which the little bird obviously didn't care for, but the little wolf-bitch simply would not _behave_. Between that and the rain it was a buggering good thing that he had Sansa to distract him from how difficult their journey truly was. More often than not it was raining; this meant that making camp at night and actually being comfortable was damn near impossible. _Though you've had the little bird in your arms every night_, he constantly reminded himself.

The day they finally reached the Trident was possibly the worst day of all. The river was swollen and raging, and he knew that the fords would be gone. "We'll find another way to cross," he promised Sansa. "Harroway shouldn't be far from here, and if the waterhorse is still in residence..."

"Waterhorse?" the girls chorused. _How to explain this?_

"A sort of...boat. Horse heads front and rear. They use it to ferry across the river."

Arya looked doubtful, Sansa something like concerned, but when he turned Stranger and began trotting downstream they followed him on the palfrey without hesitation. _How in the seven hells will I _pay_ for the damn crossing?_ Sandor wondered. He could only hope that if they were still using the waterhorse to cross the river, the people running it would be fool enough to not insist that he prepay their ride.

At first Harroway appeared deserted, having been nearly completely flooded by the rising river. Soon, however, some men appeared - weapons in hand - and rowed the waterhorse to the hillside where Sandor waited with the Stark sisters. It was damn near robbery, the price they were asking for the crossing, and Sandor had been right to worry that they would want the gold up front. But in the end his sword and face spoke for him and the men allowed them to board the boat. "Knight's honor," Sandor promised in regards to the dragons they asked for, smiling darkly at the knowledge that these men had no idea about knights and their supposed _honor_.

The ferryman made him tie up Stranger and the palfrey and then eyed Sansa and Arya. "Best get those boys inside where they can stay dry," the ferryman insisted. Sandor saw Sansa start at being called a boy, whereas Arya hardly even seemed to notice. Both girls hesitated for just a moment too long.

"Get inside," he growled, trying to ignore the hatred in Arya's eyes and the hurt look on Sansa's face. They obeyed, and soon enough the boat was moving and Sandor was busy keeping Stranger in hand. The crossing itself was treacherous; three men fell overboard and at one point Sandor saw that the stupid little wolf-bitch had come out on deck. _Sansa may put up with me tying her up at night, but she won't care for losing her outright_, he thought, frustrated. "Didn't I tell you to get inside? Do it now or I'll beat you bloody the moment we're back on solid ground!" he threatened.

Somehow they made it across, though there were a few tense moments when Sandor "paid" the ferryman with the paper promises he'd received from Dondarrion in exchange for the gold the Brotherhood without Banners had stolen from him. They didn't ride quite as hard now; there was no way the Brotherhood could cross that river, at least not this day. Unfortunately when they made camp for the night, there was no way to light a fire. Everything was wet, everything, and the little bird and her sister were soaked and shivering and obviously miserable. As they settled in to eat a cold dinner, Sandor tried to keep his gaze on the little bird but could feel Arya staring at him all the while.

"You like looking at my face, you little she-wolf?" he snarled. Sansa, who was sitting just beside him, leaned against him as if in warning.

"No," Arya snapped in response. "It's ugly."

Sandor ignored the little bird's "tsk" and said, "You're a fool. You think I'm so terrible, but you're lucky you didn't get caught by someone worse." _Also lucky that your sister is here to keep me from giving you what for_, he thought, but he kept that to himself.

"There is no one worse," was Arya's response, but now she was looking at her sister rather than at him.

He snorted. "You've never met my brother. He would have killed you a dozen times over by now if _he _had caught you."

"I know your brother. Him, Dunsen, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling, the Tickler -"

"Them?" Sandor interrupted. There was no good reason for a daughter of the honorable Ned Stark to know Gregor's nasty little pets; Dunsen and the others were not allowed at court. "How do you know _them_?"

"They caught me when I was on my way North with Yoren of the Night's Watch. Me, Gendry, Hot Pie, and Lommy Greenhands. They killed Lommy though. Well, Raff the Sweetling did."

"Seven hells," Sandor swore softly. "Gregor never knew what he had, then. If he'd done, you'd be back in King's Landing already, a prisoner of the Lannisters like your sister here was." He felt Sansa shudder against him and rested his weight into her, wary of touching her in plain sight of Arya but wanting to soothe her nonetheless. "You're luckier than you understand, girl, but rest assured that I'll let Gregor know his mistake. Right before I kill him, that is."

"Kill him? He's your _brother_," Arya replied in disbelief.

"You never wanted to snap one of your siblings in two? Not even your pretty little sister here? I see the way you look at her, all anger and hatred." Sansa moued in distress and Sandor suddenly felt awful, knowing this conversation needed to end, but before he could continue Arya muttered, "No. I'd kill you, though, Hound."

"Still crying over that butcher's boy then? I've killed many more than him, girl. You may think that makes me a monster, but I did save your sister here. Saved her from being raped and maybe murdered by a mob in King's Landing, saved her from the Lannisters by taking her away during the Battle of the Blackwater. And she seems to like me just fine, as I'm sure you've noticed."

"Sandor, _please_," Sansa whispered, and he finally grunted in assent.

"This conversation is over," he growled at Arya. She tore off a large chunk of cold sausage with her teeth and stared at both of them with vehemence, but she did keep her mouth shut after that, at least.


	17. Chapter 17

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

He scared her when he talked about his brother like that, and it had already been a generally frightening day. Crossing the Trident had been worse than she could have possibly feared, not knowing what would happen when they reached the other side and Sandor couldn't pay, the waterhorse tossing on the roiling river, Stranger's screams filling the air...they were safe on land again now, but Sansa still felt unsettled. And Sandor's talk of killing Gregor, he and Arya picking fights with each other, just made it all worse. They finally stopped bickering, stopped talking altogether, but when Sandor lay down beside her that night she felt herself involuntarily shy away from his touch. He growled under his breath and pulled away from her. For the first time since they had escaped the Brotherhood without Banners, she did not fall asleep in his arms.

The next day as they were riding Sansa finally worked up the courage to ask Arya where she'd been since escaping King's Landing the previous year.

"What do you care," Arya said, and it was not at all a question but a fierce statement.

"I care," Sansa whispered. "I want to know what happened to you, for it must have been worse than what I went through, and what I went through..."

"Tell me," insisted Arya. "Tell me and I'll tell you."

_Where do I even start?_"I was...alone. A lone wolf surrounded by a pack of lions," Sansa explained. "Joffrey was as awful as you always believed him to be." She knew Arya would like her to admit that. "I was punished every time Robb succeeded. Sometimes I was punished just because Joffrey felt like it."

"Punished?"

"Beaten," Sansa said simply. "By members of the kingsguard."

"But not the Hound?"

"No, Arya. Not Sandor."

Arya was silent for a long time. Finally she said, "Yoren of the Night's Watch found me the day they beheaded Father. He was going back to the Wall and thought to leave me at Winterfell along the way. But...we holed up in an abandoned keep one night and we were attacked. Yoren and most of the others were killed. After that I...I tried to keep moving North, but stupid Gendry got us captured by the Mountain. I was at Harrenhal for a while, and then when I escaped from there the Brotherhood without Banners found me. At first I thought...Harwin...but they just dragged me around, for _weeks_. And then you were there, at Stoney Sept, and here we are."

_No wonder she's so dirty_, Sansa thought, then felt bad that this was her first reaction. "Were you scared?" she asked carefully.

"Wolves are never _scared_," Arya replied, her tone implying the word "stupid" at the end of her statement. But Sansa heard the lie beneath the words and automatically tightened her grip around her sister's waist. "_Ouch_," snapped Arya. "Quit squeezing me." Sansa relented. She felt suddenly lighter and far more understanding of Arya's attitude.

"May I ask a favor of you, Arya?" Her sister merely sighed in reply, but Sansa continued. "Can you please just _try_ to not be so hateful to Sandor? He has a terrible temper, I know. He's done things...unforgivable things, I'm sure...but he is loyal. He wants to keep me - _us_- safe. He is bringing us back to Mother and Robb."

Arya never did reply, but Sansa took that as a grudging agreement to her request. That night when they made camp, she asked Sandor to not tie Arya up. He was wary. "She'll likely try to run again, little bird."

"Mayhaps she will," Sansa admitted. "But more than likely she won't. She knows we're going in the right direction, and she knows that I trust you. She's better off with us than on her own. She knows that to be the case." Sandor obviously didn't like the idea, but he nonetheless allowed Arya to remain free. Sansa watched her little sister wander off and set up her bedroll behind some bushes, some distance from where she and Sandor had laid theirs out. "Don't go too far!" Sansa called.

"I'll go as far as I please to get away from the two of you. I'm tired of watching you make doe eyes at each other," Arya scoffed. Sansa felt Sandor's arm snake around her waist and as he pulled her toward him her muscles went limp.

"You really think she won't run off?" he rasped, his warm breath caressing her ear and making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

"I really think she won't," Sansa insisted. His lips traced gentle yet rough kisses from the top of her head to the dip between shoulder and neck, his arm a steel bar holding her body against his, and she gasped involuntarily.

"Sansa?" Arya called, sounding almost..._worried_.

"I'm here, Arya...I'm fine..." Sansa replied, hearing the trembling in her own voice and hoping her sister wouldn't hear it as well. But Arya said nothing else, and after pressing his erection into her for a moment and softly nipping at her neck, Sandor released her. She turned to face him, her face flushed and her heart fluttering in her chest, and he grinned at her. When he smiled like that his mouth twisted funnily, and it looked more frightening than anything else, but Sansa loved him for it all the same.

**SANDOR**

The little bird may have been upset with him after his discussion with her sister, but it hadn't lasted. He'd heard the two of them talking while they rode that day, and though he hadn't heard what was said there did seem to be far less tension between the Stark girls when they dismounted and made camp for the night. He wasn't sure about letting Arya sleep loose, but at this point he almost didn't care. Having the she-wolf's eyes on him all the time made him uneasy, and kept him from doing all the things he wanted to do to Sansa Stark. _Though that's likely for the best_, he thought, grimacing.

Arya did not try to escape that night, and after they'd cleared that first hurdle things seemed far less strained throughout the following days. One morning Arya even convinced Sansa to ride with Sandor on Stranger rather than on the palfrey with her. "I'm sick of you always squeezing on me every time something startles you," was Arya's excuse, but once Sansa was settled in front of Sandor on his saddle he noticed that the little she-wolf pointedly kept her eyes on anything _but_ himself and her sister. That, and Arya had a cocky little grin on her face that in part amused him even as he desired to wipe it off her face with the stroke of one mail-gloved hand. But he was distracted by the feel of the little bird's body folded against his in the saddle, the rhythmic movement of the horse beneath them rocking her against him so that he suddenly caught his breath at the overwhelming feeling of desire that rushed through him.

Sansa didn't seem to notice the physical intimacy of their current situation as she prattled on about the wedding, wondering whether or not there would be lemoncakes - _always with the lemoncakes, this girl_ - and whether or not Walder Frey was as awful a "little weasel" as Sansa had once heard her lady mother describe him.

_Weasel._Something about that detail tugged at Sandor, but he couldn't figure out exactly why and pushed the feeling of unease to the back of his mind. They were getting ever closer to the Twins now, and he needed to figure out how to sneak the Stark girls in without causing a ruckus or ending up seized while some other arse tried to take credit for their return. Unfortunately it was more than difficult to formulate a decent plan with the little bird's arse pressed into his cock, rocking against him just as she would had they not any clothes on and -

He heard Sansa's sharp intake of breath and understood that she felt him, now. Sandor took Stranger's reins in one hand and wrapped the other around her waist, crushing her against him as he murmured, "Do you think your sister pictured this when she insisted we ride together?" into her ear. The little bird gave a scandalized little gasp and he chuckled at the knowledge that she could have such ladylike tendencies and concerns, yet not even be attempting to squirm out of his grasp as he pressed his erection into the small of her back.

The rest of the ride was one long, almost painful experience. Eventually he had to take the reins in both hands again, but that did little to alleviate the constant arousal caused by his little bird's close proximity. When they stopped at the end of the day and Arya dismounted and rushed off to piss, Sandor slid from Stranger's back and reached up for Sansa, but when her feet were on the ground he kept his hands wrapped around her tiny perfect waist and leaned down to kiss her, _really_ kiss her, for the first time since the inn when he'd almost not been able to _stop_ kissing her.


	18. Chapter 18

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

Gods, but she wanted to beat Arya over the head for this suggestion. _While thanking her for it at the same time_, Sansa mused, then thought maybe she should beat _herself_ over the head for enjoying the feel of Sandor pressing against her while the saddle moved rhythmically beneath them both. She found herself babbling about any and everything that came into her head - wedding feasts, the Freys, whether they should interrupt the preparations or wait until her mother and Robb were full of good food and wine before pressing their case...

But then Sandor grabbed her and held her against him and she could _feel_ his desire, his _need_...she literally _could_ not speak then, and they rode the rest of the day in silence, though his breathing was heavy on the back of her head and she felt as if something would explode inside her if he touched her _just the right way_...

She did not expect his kiss, though. Arya may have scurried off to make water, but she could - _would_- be back any moment, so when he lifted her from Stranger's back and covered her mouth with his her knees nearly collapsed beneath her. Sansa's body betrayed her, her mouth opening for his automatically, the rough feel of the scarred half of his lips sending something like electric shocks through her and making her wonder how she could have ever possibly been afraid of him. Her body was limp against his, his arms the only thing keeping her upright though she suddenly wished the ground were not quite so wet and that he would lay her down and -

_And what, you silly little bird? You know what he'd do if he could lay you down, or rather if Arya wasn't here and he could lay you down._

"How very _ladylike_ of you, Sansa," Arya's suddenly broke in, her voice dripping with sarcasm. With an exasperated growl Sandor broke their kiss, and Sansa turned to see her little sister watching them, arms crossed over her chest and an utterly disgusted look on her face. "Even if I did escape, I'd be leaving you alone with _him_...you'd be ruined within an hour, at this rate."

Sandor snorted and Sansa shot him a frustrated look. Since when did anything _Arya_ said amuse him? Sansa blushed crimson as she twisted away from Sandor, hugging herself and wondering why she felt more annoyed with her sister than ashamed at her own behavior.

An awkward silence descended over their little pack that night. That's what they were, Sansa had realized throughout the past few days - a pack. Two wolves and a hound, and the only one who could have possibly survived on his own was Sandor. It was nice, though, being a part of something again...knowing that you were surrounded by those who would watch out for you. When she made to lay out her bedroll after they had eaten and sat through the awkward silence for quite some time, Arya cast an amused glance their way. "I'd be careful if I were you, Hound. Sansa has always been the perfect little lady, but she's also used to getting what she wants."

_"Arya!_" Sansa breathed. Did her sister even know what she was _saying_? When Sansa looked to Sandor the look on his face was one of pure amusement, and she felt a surge of jealousy at the fact that he and her sister were apparently sharing a sort of joke at her expense. "I'll roll out the bedding," she mumbled, pulling it from the pack hanging from the saddle and slipping away from Sandor when he tried to hold her back.

This was a development she had not expected. Certainly it had been difficult when Sandor and Arya had been at each other's throats for days on end, but the idea of them becoming something bordering on _friendly_...

_You're only jealous because Sandor and Arya are far more alike than he and you are,_ a little voice taunted. _He may want you, but you will _never_ understand each other_.

_That's not true!_ Sansa wanted to scream. _Arya hated him because he obeyed an order, and kept hating him because she refused to see how vulnerable he was...you knew his history and though his anger frightened you, when he was gentle with you you were able to overlook his nasty words, see beyond them. And if he did not care for you he would have taken what he wanted long ago, and possibly even left you for dead. Or worse._

Still...though these realizations gave her pause, Sansa still felt that Arya's insertion into her relationship with Sandor had caused a sort of...rift. At first she had assumed it was because they were at odds with each other, but now...now she wondered if it maybe wasn't the exact opposite. If maybe it was because they had so much in common. Because they saw something in each other that she would never understand.

**SANDOR**

_How does that buggering little wolf-bitch ruin everything?_

One moment Sansa Stark had been in his arms; he'd been kissing her and she'd been kissing him back and he _knew_ that if he'd had a proper place to lie her down...

But no, her sister had to come stomping back and ruin everything. Of course, Arya's accusation was amusingly true and he couldn't help but snort his agreement...yet he hadn't expected the little bird to react so strongly, hadn't expected her to tear herself away from him and then roll out the three bedrolls equidistant from each other. Once he had finished eating and double checked to make sure that the horses were staked properly, he grabbed his own bedding and moved it just next to hers, ignoring the somewhat confused, upset look that she gave him. Thankfully Arya picked up her own bedroll and moved it even farther away than it had been - amongst some bushes, in fact, which would likely give shelter but would obviously also shield her from their view, and therefore shield _them_ from _her _view.

Sansa wriggled under her coverlets fully clothed and after a moment's hesitation, Sandor did the same. For a long moment he lay on his back, unsure as to whether she would reject him should he try to hold her...but then something in him wondered, _Would she even be strong enough to push you away?_and so he turned onto his side and reached for her. She was tense in his arms, at first, but then she relented - or her body did - and he folded himself around her, nearly immediately feeling himself go hard. The little bird must have felt him, because she suddenly tried to pull away, but he held on and rasped, "Do you want me to let you go, girl? Or do you want to face me and kiss me like you did before, now that your sister won't see?" She went completely still for a long moment before turning around so fast that he lost his grip on her.

"Wouldn't you rather that she see?" Sansa accused. "You seem to find it amusing when she does."

Confused and a bit annoyed, Sandor asked, "What do you mean, little bird?" Silence enveloped them for some time and he was afraid that she wouldn't answer, until she said, "You...you and Arya...you are..._similar._ So angry, so passionate, and I -"

"What are you saying, Sansa?" It was the first time he had ever said her name out loud in front of her, and he felt her sigh, a sort of long shuddering exhale that made him want to push her away and hold her close at the same time.

"When you tire of me, you will want someone like Arya. Someone like you. Someone who understands your anger," she whispered sadly. If her words had not cut Sandor to the quick, he would have laughed.

"Who's to say I will tire of you, little bird? You are the one who will wed a great lord, whilst I must be content with kisses and gentle touching and knowing that you will never truly be mine," he replied, the truth and weight of his words rendering him tense and frustrated - until her cold little hand was resting gently on his cheek, and when he reached up to copy her gesture he felt the tears spilling from her eyes. They held each other for some time, just like this, and when she finally spoke it was as if someone had torn open his gut, an acute yet beautiful pain that he had never expected to feel.

"No. I was made a great match; I was to be a _queen_. I do not want a prince or a great lord; I do not want someone who will marry me for my name, for Winterfell, for the North. I want someone who will marry me because he wants _me_. I would bide my time and find that man, but by the Seven I would rather it be you than anyone else. I have been yours for so long now that I cannot remember when it started, truly. Possibly the first time Joffrey ordered Ser Meryn to beat me. For a moment I wanted to push him to his death, and then you were there, kneeling before me and wiping away my blood and I felt that no one had ever been so gentle and so kind. You frightened me then, still...I won't deny it...but I also saw in you the strength that I wished for myself. I still see it. _You make me brave_, Sandor. I will have you, or I will have no one."

He hated to say it, but he _had_ to. "That may not be a choice you are allowed to make, little bird. I am the second son of an upstart House; at most, if Gregor dies, I am the _lord_ of an upstart House. Your family...the North...they would never agree to such an alliance. Especially as I come from the West."

"You thought what Arya said was funny because you thought it was true - that I'm used to getting what I want," Sansa stated. Sandor stiffened. _Is that what this is about?_ "You are what I want. I...if I was no longer a maiden...they would have to give me to whomever would have me..." She was tentative, and he could hear the tremble in her voice. She was unsure; scared, even.

"Sansa." Her name was like honey and poison on his tongue. "If you said the words, I would take you. It would hurt, and I would enjoy it far more than you ever could...this time, at least. But you would lose far more than you would gain, giving yourself to me. I will always be angry. I will walk away from everything if it means a chance to fight and kill my brother. I am not the Florian to your Jonquil, no matter that I saved you, no matter that I -" He stopped himself from saying the word. He loved her. He did. He loved her for her beauty and her innocence, loved her for the way she touched his face and the way her lips parted for him when he kissed her. He loved her for siding with him even when her sister was there hating him, loved her for crying for him and wanting him to come back for her when the Brotherhood without Banners would have brought her to her family as well. For a hundred reasons he loved her, but until he said it out loud he hoped that she would never know the truth of the matter.


	19. Chapter 19

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

She offered herself to him outright, yet still he would not have her.

Sansa had been considering it all evening, considering it since Arya had interrupted their kiss and Sansa had realized that there were possibly women in this world who Sandor would prefer over her. Women about whom he would not have to constantly worry. Women who could protect themselves. Not Arya, of course, she was far too young...but then Sansa was young too, half Sandor's age at least...

She heard his excuses, his concern over hurting her, but when he insisted that he was not the Florian to her Jonquil something in her broke. Florian and Jonquil was a silly song, she had realized that some time ago, and she did not want to emulate it. Sandor was not a handsome man; even without his scars he would have been average looking at best. He had not the lithe form of the Knight of Flowers; he was big, almost too big. tall as a tower with such broad shoulders...but every bit of him was muscled, strong, sure. He was angry, yes, but to her he had also always been gentle. Even when he was telling her things she did not want to hear, it had been no more than honesty - the type of honesty no one else had ever given her.

It seemed that he was maybe going to say something else, but she stopped him the only way she knew how, by grabbing hold of his head and searching out his mouth. She'd become accustomed to kissing him, she thought, and though sometimes he was sweet and gentle with her just now she desired his fierceness - and so she took it from him, took it with her lips and her tongue, took it by curling her leg over his hip while at the same time taking his hand in hers and moving it to the laces on her breeches, coaxing him to untie them even as she reached for the laces on his and tugged at them with an urgency that bespoke the things she could not bring herself to say out loud.

Sandor paused for a moment, his fingers wrapped around the laces and his mouth still close to hers. "Little bird..." But Sansa silenced him again with her mouth and then her laces were undone and he was pushing the breeches down her legs as she struggled with his until suddenly his manhood fairly sprung free and by instinct she took it in her hand, the size of it making her heart thud madly in her chest. At first they fumbled with each other, as awkward as the new lovers they were, but Sandor seemed to know what to do and in the work of a moment his erection was pressed against her folds. She was nervous, frightened even, but somehow she also wanted to beg him to take her. They lay there for what seemed a lifetime, and just the sensation of his manhood against her sent waves of pleasure radiating from her center, causing her to tremble all over.

The first drop of water that hit Sansa's head merely startled her, but suddenly the sky opened and rain came pouring down. Arya swore loudly and Sandor and Sansa sprang apart. Sansa quickly pulled up her breeches and struggled to release herself from the tangled bedroll, gathering it up in her arms as the three of them darted to the nearest tree and stood beneath it, though its branches did little to keep them dry in the torrential downpour. Sandor wrapped his arms about her and pulled her close as they waited for the rain to stop. Eventually they all sunk to the ground and dozed, but between the rain and the cold and the knowledge of what had almost transpired between her and Sandor that night, Sansa felt nothing if not restless and frustrated.

When dawn broke it was obvious that it was to be a gray and muddy day; also, they were getting quite close to the Twins now and needed some sort of distraction as a means to sneak in. Luckily they came upon a farmer whose cart was stuck in the muddy ruts of the road and though Sansa didn't care for it when when Sandor showed his sword and confiscated the man's livelihood she bit her tongue and remained silent. They would have to sneak around for just a bit longer, she reminded herself, or else Sandor would likely be dragged before their lady mother and Robb bound and possibly even beaten. This knowledge made Sansa uneasy and she inwardly cursed the rainstorm that had interrupted the only plan she had been able to think of for keeping him close. _You know it's for the best_, something inside of her insisted. _They would have thought Sandor raped you, if you'd told them it was him who took your maidenhead. And if you lied and gave them another name, any other name..._

Sansa shook her head to clear it. That didn't matter now. The moment was passed.

**SANDOR**

As he used his own strength along with that of Stranger to pull their stolen cart from the mud, Sandor tried not to think of how close he'd come to ruining the little bird. Even as he cursed the rain that had interrupted them, he was grateful for it. He snorted when he realized that only an act of the gods he didn't really believe in could have stopped him from taking her maidenhead, and that was exactly what had happened in the end.

They approached the Green Fork slowly but surely, with only a brief moment of concern when they were stopped by Ser Donnell Haigh. _It _would_ be someone who knows me_, Sandor thought with a low growl, but the girls kept their heads down and their mouths shut as he'd bid them, and Sandor's peasant clothing apparently made him something like invisible to even a lowly Frey vassal.

It was nearly dark when the sounds of a wedding feast began to reach their ears. The closer they got the worse it sounded, and both Sansa and Arya were making disgusted faces. "Is Lord Walder _deaf_?" Arya asked incredulously, and Sandor would have chuckled had he not felt so uneasy. It was still raining, though only a light rainfall now, and in the dim light he could not tell whose banners were whose. Some Northern fool with an awful pink badge splattered with red directed them to unload near the feast tents, but Sandor knew that Lady Catelyn and Robb Stark would be in the castle. He pretended to obey the orders he was given, but the moment the northman was out of sight he pushed the horse toward the Twins.

"That man was a Bolton...he would have helped us find Robb," he heard Sansa murmur to her sister.

"No," Arya said firmly. "We'll find Robb on our own. If he'd been a Glover, maybe, or an Umber...but not a Bolton." _One of the first smart things I've ever heard that girl say_, Sandor mused.

"Why not a Bolton?" the little bird chirped, confused. Sandor could practically hear Arya roll her eyes.

"No Boltons. Trust me," insisted the she-wolf.

"He said the castle was closed..." Sansa pressed. Sandor finally broke into their argument.

"They'll let us through, once they see who you are. Remember, I promised to bring you to your family, so if a person isn't a Lady with red hair or a boy with a crown, we aren't revealing ourselves."

To the end of his days Sandor would not forget how it felt to see that the drawbridge was down and the portcullis being raised to emit a mass of riders armed with torches, axes and swords. He heard the little bird's gasp of shock, saw Arya Stark standing in the wagon as she tried to figure out what was happening, heard himself shout, "Get down and don't move!" as he yanked his sword from under the wagon seat and leapt for Stranger. He barely had time to swing onto the destrier's back before the charging men were upon them, three of them turning to confront him. One by one he fought them off, breaking his sword in the process and pausing just long enough to take up an axe from one of the dead. He glimpsed Arya on the ground next to the wagon now, a rock in hand, and though she threw it at the man who was coming for herself and the little bird the blow only gave her a moment's respite. Sandor wheeled Stranger around and as he flew by the cart he reached for Sansa. "Your hand!" he yelled, and without hesitation she reached for him.

Sandor clasped his arm to hers and pulled her onto the destrier with him as he made for the man - _a _Frey_, what in bloody hells is going on here?_- who was riding Arya down. Sandor buried the axe in the back of the man's head. "My helm, girl, get my helm!" he ordered the little she-wolf. In a moment she had it, handed it to him, and he could feel the little bird trembling against him as he pulled it over his head, hear her sobs even over the clash of steel on steel and the screams of dying men as the feast tents collapsed and burned behind them.

"What about our brother?" Arya screamed.

"I reckon he's dead," was his harsh reply, trying to ignore the strangled cry from the girl who was pressed against him. "Your mother too. Now _come with me_; we need to get away from here!" Sandor reached his hand out, but Arya took a step back, her eyes wild.

"No!" she cried. "They're in there, they must be, we have to go look -"

"Stay and die if you want, or come with us and live. It's your choice, but I'm not going through those doors," he snarled. Suddenly Arya bolted, running headlong for the castle, and he almost wanted to let her go but then Sansa was beating at him with weak little fists, shouting through her sobs.

"Get her, go and _get her_, you musn't leave her here!"

With a grunt Sandor kicked Stranger and the destrier galloped after the little she-wolf. _I can't have her struggling in my arms while we try to ride three-to-a-horse_, he realized, and almost without thinking he cracked Arya across the back of the head with the blunt side of the axe. As she began to fall he felt Sansa slip sideways in the saddle, saw her grab hold of her sister's tunic, and with a snarl and a heave he braced Sansa with the long handle of the axe and kept her on the horse long enough for her to pull Arya up in front of her. "Hold on," he ordered the little bird, and then he kicked Stranger again, hard as he could, and gave the horse his head.


	20. Chapter 20

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

_Oh my gosh, where do I even begin? Thank you thank you thank you for all of the wonderful reviews I've received thus far! I've been lax about adding this note of thanks and for that I'm sorry. This fic has been enjoyable yet extremely difficult to write, because I am so afraid of getting Arya "wrong". It means the world to hear that I'm doing an okay job with her character and especially with her interactions with Sandor._

**SANSA**

Sansa was riding with Arya again. She almost couldn't bear to let go of her sister now, not even when they stopped to sleep at night.

They'd lost the palfrey Sansa had ridden all the way from King's Landing, as well as the stolen horse that had dragged their stolen cart…but then again, she'd lost just about everything else at the Twins anyway. The day after their escape they had found a wandering horse, though, and Sandor had caught it for Arya to ride. "Where did it come from?" Arya had asked dully.

"The Twins, most like. Ran away from that mess just like we did," Sandor had replied gruffly. Arya eyed the palfrey with disdain.

"I don't want some stupid craven of a horse."

"Aye, but you'll take her nonetheless. Stranger can't keep carrying all three of us." When he said as much Sandor's tone had been almost soft, almost kind, but when Sansa had slipped from the saddle and insisted on riding with her sister his face had hardened again.

It wasn't that she blamed Sandor for the travesty; in fact he had saved her yet again, her and Arya both, and Sansa truly wanted to appreciate that...but it seemed that Arya had fallen back to hating Sandor. True, taking the flat of his axe to the back of Arya's head had seemed a bit extreme to Sansa, but Arya truly believed that they should have stayed at the Twins, should have gone into the castle, should have tried to save their mother and brother.

_Maybe she's right...maybe we _should_ have tried; _these words kept repeating themselves in Sansa's head.

She felt stupid. And empty. Once she asked Sandor where they were going; it was the first time they'd talked since escaping from the Twins. "Away," was his simple reply, and she knew then that he had no idea where they would go.

Yet still they kept moving. It was good to keep moving, Sansa thought, to pretend that they had some sort of purpose or destination. To get as far away from the Twins and the Freys as possible.

Maybe if she traveled far enough, eventually the gnawing feeling in her gut would go away.

When they found another survivor of the wedding massacre lying half-dead in a hollow, Sansa opened her mouth to ask him if he knew of her mother and Robb, but Sandor silenced her by grabbing hold of her arm and shaking his head in warning. Instead, _he_ asked the man what he knew, and they listened as he explained that he was a bowman of Ser Marq Piper's and had been attacked by a Bolton man. Arya hissed loudly, and when Sansa turned and looked at her sister there was murder in the younger girl's eyes. For her part, Sansa did not want to believe that one northman had attacked another…for if that was the case, it meant that at least some of Robb's bannermen had turned against him. _No_, she tried to assure herself. _Robb's men wouldn't do that. They would have loved him; everyone loved him…_

"Please," the archer begged, "please, if you have some wine..."

"No wine, though I wish we had some myself," Sandor grunted. "I can give you water though, and mercy if you'd have it."

The wounded man eyed each of them in turn, but turned back to Sandor before saying, "You're the Hound. Joffrey's dog."

Sandor opened his mouth to reply, but Sansa spoke first. "No," she stated fiercely. "He is Sandor Clegane, and no man's dog." Sandor looked at her then for a long moment, his eyes hard, his mouth twitching. Finally he turned back to the archer.

"Do you want the water or not, man?"

"Y...yes," was the shaky reply. "And the mercy." Sandor handed his helm to Sansa and she ran to a nearby pond to fill it with water. When she returned she knelt before the archer and tipped the water into his mouth, wanting to curse at herself when she fumbled with the heavy helm and poured half of it down the man's face by mistake. "Thank you," the archer whispered, then, "I do wish I had some wine, though."

"You and me both," Sandor rasped, and quick as a cat he whipped out his dagger and slid it into the man's chest. Sansa gasped. _We should have said a prayer. Asked his name. _Something_, anything..._

Sandor withdrew his knife from the body and wiped it clean, then focused on her and Arya. "Take a good look," he ordered, pointing to the bloody hole in the man's chest. "You want to kill someone quick, that's where you aim. For the heart." Sansa felt a sharp pain in her chest and clutched at herself, her breaths coming hard and quick, but she did as she was told. She memorized the spot where Sandor had stuck his dagger, and then she turned away before she could get sick.

"Shouldn't we bury him?" she asked softly.

"No point in that," Sandor shrugged. "He won't know any better, and the wolves need something to eat, after all. The wild ones, I mean," he added with another glance at herself and her sister.

They foraged what they could from the dead body and were soon on their way again. After some time Arya spoke up. "We should go back. Mother could still be alive...we should go back and help her."

Part of Sansa wanted to agree, wanted to believe that Arya could possibly be right, but Sandor spoke before she could. "Even if your mother is alive, there's no way we could get in there to take her, and I'm not going to get myself or your sister here killed in such a fool attempt."

"So what, you're afraid to die?" Arya asked, and Sansa could tell that the question was meant for both herself and Sandor. She didn't reply, though; how many times in King's Landing had she thought that death would be far preferable to the torture of a life like that? Yet she must still be afraid of it - death, that is - because here she was, alive, trudging along mercilessly.

"I'm not afraid to die," Sandor shrugged. "The only thing I'm afraid of is fire." But his eyes rested on her again, and she could feel the weight of the things he left unsaid.

**SANDOR  
><strong>  
>So now he had the little bird, and still had the little she-wolf. The former seemed lost, sad, and he had no idea what to do about it. The latter was once again hateful, angry, and though he knew better how to deal with Arya's rage than Sansa's anguish he had decided to largely ignore them both.<p>

Sansa asked him where they were going now, and he didn't know. Had it just been him and his little bird, he likely would have revisited the idea of Braavos, but the idea of taking care of both Stark girls in a foreign city was not exactly appealing. Especially with Arya Stark being, well, the handful that she was.

So there was Riverrun, and there was the Vale. Riverrun would be easier to reach, he knew, but it was also far less safe; Lady Arryn had kept the Vale out of this war, so if they could reach the Eyrie...

It wasn't the best idea, the best plan, but it would have to do.

One night Arya woke both him and Sansa. She was thrashing in her sleep, growling, gnashing her teeth like an animal. The little bird was beside him, but he no longer held her at night. He didn't feel that she wanted him to, and he tried to understand, so when they awoke to the sound of Arya's nightmare and Sansa fairly flew into his lap he clutched at her as if he would never let her go.

The next morning he heard them murmuring to each other. Arya seemed even more lifeless than usual, and Sansa was crying, but he waited until she approached him and slipped her hand into his before embracing her. He petted her hair, which had begun to grow long again, and she whimpered into his chest that Lady Catelyn was dead; Arya had seen her in a dream.

Sandor held Sansa for a long time, but over her head he watched Arya and wondered what kind of dream she'd been having and whether she was telling the truth about having seen their mother in it, dead.

They rode on, the days and nights becoming ever colder. Food became difficult to find, and Sandor knew that they would need to find a place where they could stock up before making the trek through the mountains to the Eyrie. When they reached a small village high in the hills he finally made the decision to stop. "Let's hope they don't recognize my face," he said to no one in particular. Then to Sansa and Arya, "Say nothing of where we've been." Arya curled her lip at him before looking away, but Sansa nodded obediently and with a grunt Sandor urged Stranger toward the village.

The villagers were wary, he could see that immediately, but the elder admitted that they were building fortifications and could use another able body. "We can pay," the elder promised. "Not much, but you'll have shelter and food and even some coin."

"Wine as well, and I'll stay and help," Sandor bargained.

"No wine to be had, but there's ale."

"Good enough."

And so they settled in. Soon Sandor even felt comfortable confiding to the village elder that they meant to make for the Eyrie - but the other man merely cocked an eyebrow and slowly shook his head. "You'll never make it. There's been snow in the passes for some time now; even if you didn't freeze, you'd have the mountain clans to contend with. They've got good steel these days and a fierce hunger for power. They'd kill you and take your daughters."

Sandor had a feeling that this man knew the little bird and the she-wolf weren't his daughters - _especially the pretty little bird, all red hair and blue eyes...at least the she-wolf is a homely little gray-eyed thing_ - but he let the lie rest. They had full stomachs every night, more oft than not he had enough ale to make him sleepily drunk, and the small two-roomed cottage the village had provided allowed for he and the little bird to have some privacy from her sister. On their first night in the cottage, while Arya sat by the hearth, poking angrily at the fire with a stick, Sandor had worked up the courage to go to Sansa as she lay in the back room on the straw pallet, staring silently at the wall.

"Little bird..." he said. He wanted to ask if he could lie with her, wanted to tell her that he was sorry about her mother and brother, wanted, wanted, _wanted..._

Sansa turned to him and raised herself on her elbows. She had removed her breeches and tunic and was wearing the single worn shift that she had brought from King's Landing, the one she'd worn while she had convalesced in the inn. _So long ago_, Sandor thought, an ache rising in the back of his throat.

For a long moment they looked at each other - beautiful Sansa Stark, her now just-past-shoulder-length hair wild and fiery red as she gazed up at him from the bed, and burnt ugly Sandor Clegane, standing awkwardly in the door and trying to untwist his tongue and say what he wanted to say. Finally she smiled at him, a sad sort of smile, and patted the empty spot on the bed next to her.


	21. Chapter 21

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

She almost liked this little village. Arya called herself Meria now, and she insisted that Sansa pick a name as well. "I can't go around calling you Sansa, stupid. And we can't go shouting 'hey, you' every time we need to catch each other's attention," Arya said with a roll of her eyes when Sansa asked why she needed a different name. So Sansa chose the name Moira, though Arya scoffed at her for picking a name that started with the same letter as her own alias.

The biggest difficulty was how to treat Sandor. She knew that the villagers pretended that she and Arya were his daughters, but when he'd come to her bed on their first night in the cottage he had kissed her and held her as no man should ever kiss or hold a child of his blood. She'd let him do it, wanted it even, but he seemed to be waiting for her agreement before taking things any farther and then she'd thought of her lady mother and how Catelyn Stark would feel if she knew that her beautiful Sansa was lying with a man not her husband and Sansa had broken down sobbing. Sandor had run his fingers through her hair and muttered incomprehensible but soothing words and eventually she'd drifted to sleep. In the morning when she woke he was gone, already outside helping the villagers with their building. Sansa wandered outside and settled in to watch him work, as always admiring his strength and the strange grace with which he seemed to move, despite his size.

That was the day Arya had bothered her about changing their names, and that was the day Sansa Stark had decided to become Moira no-surname. If she was this person, this peasant girl named Moira, Sandor would be above her station and she would be his mistress or maybe a lucky girl raised up by wedding the second son of a lesser house. Moira knew that the former was more likely, but there was still something of Sansa in her and she decided that she'd rather the latter be the case.

Arya - _no, Meria now_- soon made a little friend. Or maybe it was more that she gained a follower. Meria seemed annoyed at the village girl who followed her around with a doll in her arms, but Moira hoped that her sister would be kind. She also hoped that Meria's friend would keep her busy, because Moira wanted to be alone with Sandor.

It took Moira a few nights of sleeping beside Sandor and a couple of days watching him work before she had gathered the courage to speak plainly. At mid-day on their fourth full day in the village, she prepared and set out a lunch for him, made sure Meria was nowhere to be seen, and carried a waterskin out to where he was working with the villagers on the barricade that was meant to keep out the mountain clans should they come calling. Sandor drank deeply from the skin and grumbled a thank you, but as he turned to go back to his work Moira reached out and touched his arm. "I have a table set in the cottage; would you come sup with me?" she asked nervously.

Sandor looked about him, but none of the other men seemed to be paying any mind so he gave a brusque nod and followed her inside. She waited until he was sitting and had started to eat before she tentatively spoke his name. "Sandor?"

"Mmph?" he grunted through his mouthful of food.

"I...I've been thinking." Moira wrung her hands and stole a glance at him; he was still chewing but was also watching her intently. "We cannot go to the Vale, and I know we need to wait to hear word of Riverrun before we bother making our way _there_...and I thought maybe...if we stayed here for a while..."

He swallowed hard. "Out with it, girl."

But she couldn't say it. She didn't know _how_ to say it. Instead she stepped forward and slid onto his lap, taking his face in her hands and kissing him gently on the lips. "Arya is Meria now," she whispered, her mouth still close to his. "And I am Moira. Moira does not have the blood of kings running in her veins. Moira has no family but Meria. Moira no longer cares about the war of the five kings, or four kings, or however many there are today. She needs a warm place to sleep and food in her belly and someone to love her; that is all."

There was something like anger in his eyes, and he was trembling beneath her. "Say what you mean, little bird, but know that I'll not call you by this false name."

Moira chewed on her lip for a moment. She feared that if she told him she wanted to play at being husband and wife, he would laugh at her. _Maybe I will keep that to myself_, she decided. Instead she said simply, "I want to have you. I want _you _to have me."

She meant every word, and he must have seen as much because suddenly his hands were buried in her hair and he was pulling her head toward his, but his kiss was not frantic or fierce as his kisses often were. This time it was gentle, searching, his tongue feeling for hers and causing her to whimper into his mouth. She broke the kiss first, pulling away to draw a haggard, needy breath before staggering to her feet. "We should bar the door," she suggested.

"_Now_?" he asked incredulously. Moira nodded.

"Meria shouldn't come back for some time; she likes to wander during the day," Moira reminded him. For a long moment Sandor stared at her, as if expecting her to change her mind, so she finally jerked her head toward the door and then left him in the front room, going to the bed they had been sharing and sitting down on it to wait. Time seemed to crawl by, but eventually she heard him stand, heard the sound of the bar sliding down to lock Meria out, and then he was there in the doorway, his heaving chest betraying the fact that he was nervous as well. _And aroused_, Moira thought when her eyes focused on the bulge in his breeches. She blushed crimson at how forward she was being, and then he was kneeling before her, his fingers tracing along her jawline with that tenderness that never failed to surprise her.

"Little bird," he murmured in that rasping voice of his.

Moira closed her eyes.

**SANDOR**

_She's not giving herself to you as Sansa Stark, as your little bird. She is pretending to be someone else_.

Sandor sat at the table, his lap still warm from where the little bird had occupied it just moments before.

The first time she had offered herself to him, it had been out of desperation and the fear of their being separated. Now she was offering herself again, but still not for the reasons he would have wanted. It was out of grief, maybe even confusion, and though she was right to have chosen a different name for herself - for now - the idea of her _becoming_this peasant girl named Moira bothered him.

_Why, though? People called you the Hound and so you became. Joffrey called you his dog, and is that not what you were? Why should she not lose herself as well, and if in doing so she chooses to be yours..._

"Seven hells," he mumbled, passing his hand over his face. He felt himself stand before he even knew that he'd made up his mind, and then the door was barred and he was in the room they'd been sharing and she was staring right at his cock, which had of course gone hard the moment she'd slid into his lap. A pretty blush bloomed on her cheeks and then he was kneeling in front of her, touching her, and she closed her eyes and he was lost.

He kissed her, trying with all his might to be gentle, waiting for her tongue to part his lips before reaching up to brush the pad of his thumb over her chest, just above the neckline of the plain roughspun dress some villager had gifted to her. She shivered beneath his touch and he felt her reach around her back to struggle with her laces. Sandor pulled away. "Would you like me..." he began to ask, gesturing helplessly with his hands. She nodded and smiled at him, so he put his arms around her back and began fumbling clumsily with the strings. She was pressed against him and he could feel every thump of her hard-beating heart as he tucked his chin over her shoulder and tried to figure out how to get the buggering dress off her. Finally he decided it was loose enough and in needy frustration he pushed it down to reveal her from the waist up, all soft curves and round little teats and perfect pink nipples.

"Sandor? Is...is something wrong?" she asked quietly. He looked up to see hurt and concern clouding her face and realized that he had simply been sitting there, staring at her, for several long moments.

"No, little bird," he said, his mouth twisting into a grimace. "It's just that...you are beyond compare." He reached up and flicked his forefinger over one of her nipples, groaning when it hardened instantly at his touch. She took his hand in hers and placed it on her face, leaning into his palm with a sigh as he gently pushed her back onto the pallet. He took back his hand to pull the dress down over her hips, to pull it off completely, leaving her lying there in just her smallclothes. The skin of her legs was pale and unblemished, but the months of riding had made them stronger and more muscular than any lady's legs had a right to be. The sight of them nearly made him mad with desire.

Sandor placed his palms on her shins and slowly moved them upward, and she sighed at the friction. When he reached her smallclothes he moved them aside with one hand while he began exploring her with the fingers of the other. She was wet already, but not wet enough, and some base instinct made him bend forward and drag his tongue gently over the pink folds of her cunt. This time her sigh was a guttural sound, almost animal-like, and he felt his cock jump in response. He used a finger to find the little nub above her opening and when he felt her twitch at the sensation he adjusted himself and began circling the tip of his tongue around it, slowly and firmly. Within moments she was writhing beneath his touch and Sandor had to reach up and clasp his hands around her hips as he moved his tongue down and inside of her.

The scarred side of his face was pressed into her upper thigh and though he could not feel how soft her skin was, he knew it must be so. He would have stayed there forever but his need had built to the point of being painful, and now she was clawing at his hands and wrists as if trying to pull his head back up to hers. Her folds were slick and moist and he knew that she was as ready to take him as she would ever be. He sat up and she moued, still reaching for him, but he had to pause to remove his breeches and tunic. He watched her the entire time, watched her watching him, and the site of her face red with lust, her eyes veiled with desire, was almost more than he could take.

"Are you sure about this, little bird?" Sandor asked one last time. He felt the need to inform her, "It will hurt, no matter how careful or gentle I try to be."

"Yes," she said softly, then, "I know." He saw her then in all her Northern glory, a beautiful queen, more a queen than Cersei could ever be, carved of stone and ice, weirwoods and snow, by wind and hot springs. She was strength and courage in their purest forms - and she was _his_.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Now that we have come to this point, I feel it necessary to warn anyone who is reading this of the following: If you <em>need_ your fics to have the happy endings that GRRM likely won't give his characters, don't read past this point. If you need that happy ending and _do**_** read past this point, I take no responsibility for how you'll feel at the end of this story :)** _


	22. Chapter 22

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**_Yet another warning: Seriously, I'm serious, if you need a happy ending please don't read any farther. I just don't want to be the bearer of huge disappointment :-/_**

**SANSA**

Sandor lay down beside her now, propping himself up on one elbow while his other hand continued to gently probe her folds. Gingerly Sansa - _no, Moira, you are Moira, you _must_ remember that - _reached for him as well, reveling at the hitch in his breathing and the fact that he closed his eyes when she took his manhood in her hand. She leaned forward to kiss him and he grabbed her, rolling onto his back and sitting her over his hips so that she could feel his erection against her woman's place. She exhaled, her breath trembling as much as every other part of her. He placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her down to lie on his chest, kissing her as he reached for himself.

She felt the head of his manhood at her entrance and she stiffened automatically, waiting for the pain she was sure would come. She knew very little of the act of love, but she'd known that it would hurt before he'd warned her of such. Sandor paused. "You must tell me _now _if this should end," he said through gritted teeth.

Moira tamped down the part of her that considered his offer for a moment and shook her head as vigorously as she could manage to do so. With a groan Sandor rubbed his shaft into her wetness and then slowly began to push inside her. For a short moment the thought that this wasn't so bad flitted through her head, but then he ground his hips up and stars exploded before her eyes and she gasped at the pain. Sandor went still beneath her, his hands shaking as he grabbed at her arms and growled, "Are you all right?" She forced herself to nod, to take a deep breath, but still he remained unmoving.

Finally she whispered, "It's...just be..." He reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear and she could almost see the concern and the temptation fighting for control over him. When he began moving again it was in slow, short thrusts that dulled the sharp pain inside of her. She wondered at the feeling of being so stretched, so full.

"Fuck, girl, you're too tight...I don't know how long..." He was speaking to her, but his eyes had nearly rolled into the back of his head. Just the sight of him so vulnerable, his usual walls completely knocked down, left a hot pulsing feeling in her nether regions, a feeling that completely smothered any pain she had been experiencing just moments before. She heard herself moan - _a most unladylike sound, but then you're not supposed to be a lady anymore_ - and she lowered her mouth to his face, brushing her lips over the scarred side, dragging the tip of her tongue over the ridges where _his_ lips should have been.

A sort of snarl rose in Sandor's throat and he slid a hand between them to press at the little pearl of flesh on which he had used his tongue before. This new sensation sent a quiver up her body and she bore down on his hand with a gasp, and then suddenly there was another feeling, a pressure deep inside of her, almost in her belly...and when Sandor suddenly bucked his hips against hers she felt a wave of pleasure rush through her, crash over her, and her body constricted around him as she convulsed again and again, barely able to bite back the wanton cries that threatened to spill from her, only allowing herself a few weak whimpers of satisfaction and one soft hiss of his name, "Sandor…"

Whatever she did was apparently enough for Sandor as well, for the moment that she lost control he did too. He was pushing down on her with one hand while he rose to meet her and she felt his body shudder fiercely as he groaned, "Sansa..." and spilled his seed inside of her.

They lay there for quite some time afterward. She felt sore but sated; she'd never imagined it could be like _this_. Eventually he displaced her, though gently, and when she saw the blood between them she turned her face away, ashamed.

Sandor grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at him. He seemed almost angry when he rasped, "Are you hurt?" She averted her gaze.

"N...no," she whispered. "I mean...I will be tender for a while, I think, but is that not normal?"

He let go of her chin and buried his head in one hand. "Aye," he assented. "That's to be expected." She reached for his hand and pulled it away from his face, twining her fingers through his.

"We can try again tomorrow," she smiled, "I'm sure I won't be so sensitive by then." After a moment's hesitation Sandor gave a barking laugh and grabbed hold of her, burying his hands in her hair and pressing his lips to hers.

**SANDOR**

He worked hard during the day, often returning to the cottage for lunch with his little bird. Arya - he was supposed to remember to call her Meria, now, stupid name that it was - always ran off at dawn and rarely returned before dusk. Once he wandered off from the building of the barricade, to take a piss, and saw her slashing at a tree with a stick. By her stance he could have sworn she was practicing swordsmanship. She was still angry, the little she-wolf, but at least he and the little bird had their privacy during the day and only had to suffer Arya's glowering looks at night, should she catch them touching or looking or smiling at each other.

For the first time in far too many years, Sandor began to hope. They could not remain in this village forever, he knew, but maybe for a bit longer. Months, even. Months with a roof over their heads, full stomachs, and the little bird in his bed - in his _arms - _every night.

But when the village fortifications were finished, only a day or two had passed before the elder came knocking on their door. The little bird politely bid the man to sit and brought him a cup of the ale Sandor had been stockpiling - since they'd begun sharing more than kisses and touches, he'd found that getting drunk was more of a hindrance than anything else. The elder said, "Thank you, Moira," but the inflection he placed on the name told that he knew it wasn't truly hers. Arya cut her eyes at the man but Sandor glared at her, and thankfully she kept her mouth shut. _For once._

"You've been a great help to us," the elder turned to Sandor and forced a smile. "But the time has come for you and your...daughters...to move on. Already I can see that our food stores will not last a long winter; we do not need any more mouths to feed. And people like you will attract...unwanted attention."

"You know who we are," Sandor replied matter-of-factly. The elder sighed and stared into the fire for a long moment before responding.

"We are but a small village of the Vale, this is true - but we know of King Joffrey's dog. As for the girls, I think its best we don't know who they are."

"He's not a _dog_," the little bird's chirp was fierce. Sandor looked at her and shook his head almost imperceptibly.

"The mountain clans will come," he reminded the elder. "And when they do, you'd be glad to have a fighting man such as me around."

"I'd heard you weren't a fighting man anymore," the elder admitted. "That you ran from the Battle of the Blackwater...with your tail between your legs."

Sandor snorted. In a way the man was right, and in the end what good would arguing do? If they weren't wanted here but forced their presence on the village, a single raven sent to the right place could ruin everything for him and the Stark girls. "Pay me, then, and we'll be gone on the morrow." The elder nodded stiffly and set a small pouch of coin on the table; after one last long look at the little bird and the she-wolf, he saw himself out.

Once he was gone the girls rounded on him. "So you ran _with your tail between your legs_?" Arya chuckled, while at the same time the little bird cried, "That's _not_ how it happened, Sandor, why didn't you _tell _him how it happened?" Sandor shot a withering glance at the she-wolf and placed his hands on his little bird's shoulders.

"If they don't want us here, then it's no longer a safe place. Understand?" She nodded, but he could see the tears welling in her eyes. "And I did run from the battle, girl. Had you not agreed to come with me, I still would have run. I was done with the wildfire, done with obeying those fool Lannisters. I may not fear death and I'll never _not_ be a fighting man, but I ran nonetheless."


	23. Chapter 23

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

She didn't agree with him about his running from the battle, she didn't, she _didn't_...but he was right about the villagers. If they were not wanted here, they could not stay.

"But where will we go now?" she finally whispered.

They made for the Riverlands again; they had no choice anymore. _At least it's not raining now_, Sansa thought. The rivers were receding, leaving mud and debris and an awful sort of stench in their wake. Sansa was dressed as a boy again, though it had been with some hope that she stuffed the two peasant's dresses she'd acquired into her pack before they had ridden away from the village. The farther they were from there, the less she recalled about Moira the peasant girl and why she had wanted so very badly to be that person. Sandor had been the only thing Moira truly had, in the end, and now that she felt like Sansa again and he was still here...well, what was the point?

"As we're back here again, might as well make for Riverrun," Sandor said, almost dejectedly. _And no wonder_. _We were on our way to Riverrun once, but that was months ago now and we never did make it._

"The Blackfish doesn't even _know_ us," Arya spoke up.

"He'll know me," Sansa heard herself reply, and when she saw the murderous look in Arya's eyes she felt terrible. But it was true - Sansa's hair was longer still, as auburn as it had ever been, and she had the Tully blue eyes. She would be Catelyn Stark come again to Catelyn's beloved uncle, she was sure of it.

"_I _think we should go to the Wall," announced Arya. Then she apparently felt the need to remind Sansa, "Jon is at the Wall."

_Jon_. Though he had favored Arya, though Sansa had followed her mother's example and always been standoffish to her bastard half-brother, she couldn't help but think that the idea wasn't a terrible one. At least it meant going North again, and the North felt far more like home than the Riverlands did just now.

Sandor was watching her; he looked as if he felt...bad. "We can't go all the way to the Wall," he admitted. "It's a thousand leagues away at most, with the Freys along the way, and then the Neck. On top of that, the ironborn have taken most of the Northern keeps."

"What, are you _scared_?" Arya spat. Sandor looked daggers at her and Sansa knew that she had to step in.

"He's right, Arya. We'd never make it all that way. And if there's snow in the mountain passes of the Vale, imagine what it's like in the North."

After that Arya was silent and they kept riding. The countryside seemed quiet - _almost too quiet_, Sansa thought. When it became clear that there was no one around to harass them, Sandor stopped hiding his face and she stopped begging Arya to stay close to them whenever they stopped to make camp. They passed several days in this manner, and though their time together was no longer so comfortable and worry-free, Sansa and Sandor continued to enjoy it as best they knew how. Sometimes Arya would wander off and, knowing she would likely be gone for some time, they would immediately fall into each others arms and make hurried, frenzied love. They rode together on Stranger during the day, letting Arya have her little palfrey Craven to herself. Sansa was done wondering or caring what would happen when they reached Riverrun; the Blackfish was next to nothing to her, and though she felt terrible for thinking this way she also knew that she was heir to Winterfell now. Likely there would come a time when she would be expected to marry - they would try to force some high lord on her, of course - but she would deal with that when the time came. For now she was Sandor's and he was hers; that was all that mattered.

Eventually they came to an inn, an inn that Sansa and Arya recognized. A sense of unease stole over Sansa when she saw the gallows that had been erected just outside. "Please, let's keep going," she begged.

Sandor tightened his grip around her waist and breathed into her ear, "I've got coin, little bird. Enough for two rooms. Warm food, a bit of wine or ale, a bed..."

It was tempting. _Too tempting_. "All right," she agreed reluctantly.

"What if they recognize us?" Arya asked. Sansa tried to sound brighter and more cheery than she felt.

"Oh, Arya. It's been well over a year since we visited this inn. They'll have no idea who we are."

"They'll know _him_," her sister taunted, pointing an accusing finger at Sandor. Sansa knew that she was right, but if it was just the innkeep, or maybe the innkeep and some strangers passing through, they could keep their heads down and perhaps avoid notice.

_It's just one night_, she told herself. _And a night in a bed, at that. With Sandor. Alone._

They led the horses to the stable and made for the inn. Sansa pulled the hood of her cloak over her hair, which had been tied back with a scrap of leather as long-haired boys were wont to do. Arya fell in by her side and they followed Sandor through the door.

Something was wrong. The moment he was inside Sandor stopped short; Sansa and Arya nearly ran into him. Frightened, Sansa reached for his hand, but he jerked his head and she knew he meant _No_. Arya stepped forward and peered around Sandor's other side, though, and Sansa saw her sister stiffen. _Please, let's leave, if it's someone who'll know us let's _leave.

But she knew that wasn't possible. If they ran, whoever this was would likely follow, and then they would really be in trouble.

"Well, well, well," a man's voice said. "If it isn't the Hound. Big ol' pup ran away from home; is he looking to serve his brother now?"

At the mention of Gregor Clegane a shiver ran up Sansa's spine.

**SANDOR**

_We shouldn't have come here._ He knew this now, but it was too late. They couldn't run, not from these men - it would raise too much suspicion. So he tossed some coin to the innkeep and demanded wine. "Three cups, the boys here will want some as well," he called. _Please, please believe they're boys._

He could only hope that Sansa had the sense to keep her hood up.

The innkeep came back with the wine and Sandor took a long pull right from the jug before elbowing Arya and beckoning her to follow. He placed a heavy hand on Sansa's shoulder and the three of them sat on a bench against the wall, with Sansa the farthest from Gregor's men. He watched them with disdain but kept quiet. He could feel Arya, tense with anger, pressed into his left shoulder, and Sansa, shaking with fear, pressed against his right.

"The Hound?" the boy with Polliver and the Tickler snorted. "Didn't you run from the Battle of the Blackwater? Ser Gregor said you got a bit too close to the _flames_." One of Gregor's men silenced the boy with a fist to the side of his head.

"He's drunk," Polliver shrugged. "If you've come looking for your brother, he's gone. Left Harrenhall when the queen called for him. Joffrey's dead, you know."

Both Sansa and Arya were suddenly still, holding their breath. "Dead?" Sandor asked. He cared nothing for that little shit now, but he figured he ought to pretend that he did.

"Aye. Poisoned at his wedding feast. Never even got to enjoy that pretty little Tyrell girl," Polliver shook his head and tsk'ed.

"Guess that's what happens when you've got only a sorry bunch of knights protecting you," snorted Sandor. "They even know who did it?"

"The Imp, it's said. Cersei will take his head, like as not."

Sandor had no love for Tyrion Lannister, but he wanted to veer the conversation away from Joffrey and Cersei. "Gregor was at Harrenhall, then?"

"Took it like a cheap whore," Polliver chuckled, but his smile did not reach his eyes.

"What about Riverrun? Still in Tully hands?"

"For now, but it's under siege. They won't be able to hold it long; old Walder Frey still has Lord Edmure, he'll hang him if the Blackfish doesn't yield."

The conversation was becoming wearisome again. "How does Saltpans fare?" Sandor asked, knowing it to be the closest port town. If Frey still had Edmure Tully and Riverrun was under seige, it seemed his original plan of Braavos was the only sensible option.

"Saltpans? Who gives a shit about Saltpans?" Polliver waved him off.

"You're not thinking about sailing out to sea, then?" the Tickler mused. "I'm sure Ser would rather you return to Harrenhall with us. Or go to him in King's Landing."

That was it, then. Sandor could see Polliver and the Tickler's hands reaching for their swords. "Bugger my brother," he said with a menacing laugh, lurching to his feet. "And bugger you."

The wine he'd been drinking had gone straight to his head; seven hells, he hadn't eaten all day! His brother's men were on him then, but even drunk Sandor was twice the fighter either of them was. Still, he was having trouble blocking their thrusts and he was distracted by the knowledge that his little bird was right behind him, there for the taking if these men did not fall to his sword...

With a wild snarl Arya was on her feet as well, dagger in hand, and on his other side Sandor saw Sansa lob the heavy wine jug at the boy squire. These distractions cost him; Polliver's sword caught what was left of his burnt ear, Tickler's sliced open his thigh. With a grunt of rage Sandor drove his blade into Polliver's head, pulling it back when he heard Sansa's scream. The squire had hold of her, but Sandor felt slow, heavy, as if the blood seeping from his wounds was weighing him down. But then Arya was there, swiping her dagger across the boy's belly, and Sansa was free, stumbling back against the wall, white and shaking with fear. He limped toward her, forgetting for a moment that the Tickler was still there, until with a shout Arya was on that man too, stabbing wildly.

"Is there gold in the village?" Arya screamed madly. "Silver?" Another stab. "Gems?" A third. "Where is the food?" Stab. "Where is Lord Beric?" Stab.

Sandor knew that he had to do something about _her_ first. He stumbled to Arya and stayed her arm. "Enough," he rasped. "He's dead." Arya stood and backed away, trembling with rage. "Take care of the boy; you got him in the stomach and he'll be a long time dying if you don't help him along. You remember about the mercy?" Arya stared up at Sandor, a long hard look that he couldn't read, but she nodded. "Good. I've got to see to your sister."

Sansa was still sitting against the wall where she'd landed, watching her little sister with horrified eyes. Sandor moved in front of Sansa to block her view as Arya offed the crying boy. "Are you injured?" he asked, his heart nearly stopping in his chest while he waited for her answer. She finally shook her head and he let out a long breath without even realizing he'd been holding it in. He reached for her with a bloody hand. "Come. We need to get out of here while we still can." Sansa shuddered as she placed her hand in his and Sandor bit down on his tongue from the pain as she used him as leverage to pull herself to her feet.

"Arya!" he shouted. "Search them for coin and bring as much wine as you can carry. We're going."


	24. Chapter 24

**DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to George R.R. Martin and his amazing Song of Ice & Fire Series. I claim no ownership to any of this, even the parts I made up :) I'm just having my fun because all seven gods of the faith, the old gods and R'hllor know that he probably won't take SanSan where I want them to go :)**

**SANSA**

She rode behind Sandor now, rode behind him and held him in place as Arya and Craven led the way. He was badly injured, that much she knew, and she wished they could stop but knew it wasn't possible. They rode until dawn, rode until Sandor said, "Here." His voice was weak, that single word was all he spoke, but she knew what he meant.

"Arya!" she called, and her sister turned Craven toward them. They dismounted and helped Sandor down, propping him against a tree.

"Fire," he croaked. She and Arya gathered kindling. It took some time to get it to burn properly, but once it did he ordered them to tear scraps off his cloak and boil them in the wine, using his helm in lieu of a kettle. "I need a stick. A nice thick one, but make sure it's clean as it's going in my mouth." The mouth he spoke of twisted into a grimace and Sansa hesitated. "_Go_, little bird," he insisted.

It took all day to treat him, using the boiling wine on his wounds and covering the injuries with the cloak scraps once they were clean. He passed out from the pain and Arya lay down by the fire, facing away from them. Sansa could tell that her sister was only pretending to sleep, but she didn't care just now. Arya had scared her back there at the inn, stabbing that man over and over again with a ferocity Sansa did not understand.

Sansa curled up on the ground with her head in Sandor's lap and cried herself to sleep.

He was still alive in the morning, though she'd feared he wouldn't be. "We need to keep moving," he said.

"Sandor, we can't...you shouldn't..." But he shook his head and so she nudged Arya and they gathered their things. Again Sansa rode behind Sandor, her tiny arms barely fitting around his waist to hold Stranger's reins.

They did not get very far. Soon Sandor was drifting to one side of the saddle and Sansa was struggling to hold him in place. "I need to rest," he finally admitted, and when they stopped he toppled off Stranger's back before she could keep him from falling. He mumbled curse words under his breath as they propped him against another tree. Sansa beckoned Arya to bring a waterskin and Sansa poured some of the water down his throat, holding back a strangled sob. He passed out again and Sansa touched him, on his face, his arms, his hands. He was so _hot_; she almost couldn't stand sitting with him, but she had to, she _had to_. She crawled into his lap and pressed her cheek to his chest and cried and cried.

Something glinted in the sunlight; Sansa saw it even through her closed eyelids. She opened them and there was Arya, standing over them with a tiny sword in her hand, a child's sword. _Where did she get that?_

"Do it," Sandor said suddenly. Sansa started - she hadn't realized that he was awake. But he couldn't mean - "_Do it_," he said again, fiercely this time. "If you remember where the heart is, stick that sword in me. You've wanted to for quite some time now, I know."

"No!" Sansa whispered, horror-struck. When Arya looked at her then, there was pity in her eyes.

"He's going to die, Sansa. This is his mercy."

"No!" she cried again, clutching at his tunic, feeling sick.

"Leave us, girl. Leave us for a bit," Sandor mumbled. Arya looked at him for a long moment, then placed her little sword on the ground and walked away.

"Sandor, we can send her for help. We can fix this. _We can fix this_," Sansa insisted. She kissed him full on the lips, a closed-mouth kiss; kissed his nose and his burn scars and his eyelids, twined her fingers through his and felt her heart shattering inside her.

"No, little bird. I'll only hold you back. You need to get to Saltpans, need to take a ship. Somewhere, anywhere, away from this place. Away from Westeros."

"I can't," she sobbed, aware that she sounded like a child but not caring, not caring at all. "I can't leave you. Not again. _Never_ again."

"You must, girl. Let your sister give me the mercy for which I ask, take her and _go_."

"But I've loved you," she whispered, staring into his feverish eyes. "_I love you_."

"And I you, little bird. And I you."

He was fading then, she could feel it as much as she could see it. "Sandor...how will I live without you? Who will protect me?"

"_You_ will protect you, Sansa Stark. You've always had that strength in you. And you'll have your sister as well, I warrant. Now fetch her, and let me go. Please. _Please._" The last was but a whimper. He was begging, Sandor Clegane who was a dog but yet had never begged.

"I'll do it myself," Sansa heard herself say. "If it must be done, I'll do it myself."

His eyes had been closed, but he forced them open and they found hers again. "You...you don't have to do that, little bird."

"Yes," she stated. "Yes, I do." She slipped from his lap and took Arya's sword in her hand. She'd never held a real weapon before, even a child's weapon, and the thing felt foreign in her hand.

"You remember...where to place it..." he said. She nodded firmly and gripped the sword tighter, placing her free hand on his unscarred right side of his face as she pressed the point of the small blade to his chest.

"I am not sorry," she told him. "Not for this. Not for any of it. There will only ever be you, Sandor. You hear me? _There will only ever be you_." She waited for his nod, a tiny weak jerk of his head, and then she drove the sword into his heart with all of her strength.

Sandor's breath went out of him with a groan and she pressed her body to his and kissed him again, murmuring, "I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you," as her tears splashed onto his face. She felt his hand reach up and cover hers, her hand that still held the sword in his chest.

"I love you," he said, the first and only time he'd ever said those words to her, and with a few shuddering breaths he was gone.

Time passed, though Sansa knew not how much. Arya came back and gasped when she saw them there, Sansa draped over Sandor and the little sword still sticking out of his chest. Gently, slowly, Arya pulled the sword from his body and stood over them for a moment. "I'm sorry, Sansa," she said quietly, and left them again.

More time passed, and his body grew cold, but still Sansa could not bear to leave him. "We have to go," Arya said when she finally came back. "Now, Sansa, _we have to go now_." Sansa felt herself nod, let her sister pull her from Sandor's body and lead her to the horses. "We'll leave Stranger," Arya sighed. "Neither of us can handle him. Come on."

"His helm," Sansa murmured.

"What?"

"His helm, Arya. We…we should leave it with him."

Arya gave a brisk nod and gingerly approached Sandor's big black destrier to remove the snarling dog helm from the pack. She glanced at Sansa, and Sansa nodded. Arya walked the helm over to Sandor and was about to place it over his head when Sansa said, "No." She couldn't bear to see his face covered, couldn't bear him to be wearing that helm the last time she would ever see him. With a stiff nod Arya bent and set the helm beside Sandor's body, lifting his hand and placing it on top of the dog's head. She returned to Sansa's side and for a moment they both looked at him. "Valar morghulis," Arya muttered, and though Sansa did not know the words they seemed to give her strength.

Together they mounted Craven and rode away, and though Arya did not look back Sansa watched Sandor's body, watched it until it faded into the distance, watched even when she could no longer see it. "Where will we go?" Arya asked. "Do you still want to go to Riverrun?" There was something like sympathy in her sister's voice, but Sansa could tell that Arya still had no desire to find the home of their dead mother.

"No," Sansa said. "To Saltpans. We'll find a ship."

"To where?" Arya pressed again.

The name came to her almost automatically, the place he said he'd take her and keep her safe. _The place we should have made for all along._

"Braavos."

* * *

><p><strong>Well eff me, I've posted my disclaimer at the beginning of every chapter and even *I* didn't take SanSan where I wanted them to go. :-**

**As a note, I absolutely do not believe that Sandor is dead - I definitely hold to the "gravedigger on the Quiet Isle" theory :) That said, as I was writing this fic I just *knew* where it had to go, and as much as I hate giving SanSan a depressing ending this_ just felt right_. There are so many fics out there that end the way we want them to anyway, no?**

**So yeah, don't hate me? Please? :)**

* * *

><p><strong>Another note, this time in response to a review I received elsewhere regarding the ending being a sort of "plot hole".<br>**

**While I understand that Sansa's being there, and not being married to Tyrion, likely COULD have changed the outcome of Sandor's fight with Polliver and the Tickler, that's simply not the vision I had when I decided to continue this story past the Brotherhood without Banners stuff. That said, I was trying to be SUPER careful with this AU because the original prompt mentioned keeping it as canon as possible...I re-read Arya's SoS chapters like three times in prep for writing all of it, haha...and actually I was going off this passage: "The innkeep came scurrying back with two stone cups and a flagon on a pewter platter. Sandor lifted the flagon to his mouth. Arya could see the muscles in his neck working as he gulped. When he slammed it back down on the table, half the wine was gone. 'Now you can pour. Best pick up those coppers too, it's the only coin you're like to see today.'" - this passage happens before he hears about Sansa's marriage to Tyrion.**

**I know that he finishes that cup and drinks one more in the actual story (AFTER hearing about the marriage)...I just wanted to be careful how closely I followed the actual writing, so I didn't want to be perfectly clear about exactly how much wine he'd been drinking. My thought was that he would just be constantly pulling from the jug while talking to his brother's men, because though he SHOULD be careful and of course we'd WANT him to be, this would be one heck of a nerve-wracking situation and as such it wouldn't be surprising for him to forget that he hasn't been drinking much lately and hasn't eaten in a while and therefore unwittingly end up drunk. That and it's still essentially three against one, or two against one if you don't count the squire...and of course under normal circumstances he could take them buuut again these aren't normal circumstances...**


End file.
